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MACAULAY'S    ESSAYS 


ox 


MILTON  AND  ADDISON 


EDITED  FOR   SCHOOL  USE 


ALPHONSO     G.    NEWCOMER 

PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH    IN   THK   LELAND   STANFORD   JUNIOR 
UNIVERSITY 


CHICAGO 
SCOTT,  FOHESMAN  AND  COMPANY 


c    *      e    .       « 

•  i       .     .       « 

•  t."  <     i       • 


Copyright  1899 
Bv  SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPACT 


ROBERT       O.       LAVA/       C  O    M    P  A   N    >  , 
PRINTERS   AND    BINDERS,   CHICAGO. 


PREFACE       MPrlN 


Julius  Caesar  and  Lord  Macaulay  have  been 
much  abused  writers.  They  did  not  mean  to 
write  immortal  works,  least  of  all  did  they  mean 
to  write  immortal  exercises  for  the  school-room. 
But  when  a  man  writes — just  as  he  would  fight, 
on  the  field  of  battle  or  in  the  political  arena — 
with  what  Quintilian  describes  as  "force,  point, 
and  vehemence  of  style,"  he  must  expect  the 
school-boy  to  devour  his  pages.  This  is  right, — 
this  is  not  abuse;  the  abuse  is  done  when  live 
literature  is  transformed  into  dead  rhetoric,  a 
thing  for  endless  exercises  in  etymologies  and  con- 
structions, until  the  very  name  of  the  author 
becomes  odious.  Perhaps  it  is  late  for  this  com- 
plaint ;  we  flatter  ourselves  that  we  are  coming  to 
reason  and  balance  in  our  methods.  Certainly  I 
should  not  try  to  discourage  study,  and  liberal 
study,  of  the  mechanics  of  composition.  And 
there  is  no  better  medium  for  such  study  than 
Macaulay 's  Essays.  But  I  trust  that  every  teacher 
to  whom  the  duty  of  conducting  such  study  falls 
will  not  at  the  same  time  forget  that  literature  is 
an  art  which  touches  life  very  closely,  and  has  its 
springs  far  back  in  the  human  spirit. 


20451C 


8  PREFACE 

With  the  hope  of  encouraging  this  attitude  I 
have  ventured  to  assume  the  responsibility  of 
setting  afloat  one  more  annotated  text  of  Macau - 
lay.  Realizing  that,  in  dealing  with  the  work  of 
a  writer  whose  affiliations  with  literature  are 
chiefly  formal  (Introduction,  19),  there  is  no 
escape  from  considerations  of  style,  I  have  frankly 
put  the  matter  foremost.  But  I  have  tried  to 
take  a  broad  view  of  its  significance,  and  in  partic- 
ular I  have  tried  to  do  Macaulay  justice.  Alto- 
gether too  many  pupils  have  carried  away  from  the 
study  of  him  the  narrow  idea  that  his  great 
achievement  consisted  in  using  one  or  two  very 
patent  (but,  if  they  only  knew  it,  very  petty)  rhetor- 
ical devices.  It  has  been  the  primary  aim  of  my 
Introduction  to  set  these  matters  in  their  right 
perspective.  I  have  not  outlined  specific  methods 
of  study,  which  are  to  be  found  everywhere  by 
those  who  value  them,  but  both  Introduction  and 
Notes  contain  many  suggestions.  It  seems  better 
to  stop  at  this.  Even  the  few  illustrations  I  have 
used  have  been  preferably  drawn  from  essays  not 
here  printed.  No  editor  should  wish  to  take  from 
teacher  or  pupil  the  profit  of  investigation  or  the 
stimulus  of  discovery. 

There  is  another  matter  in  which  I  should  like 
to  counsel  vigilance,  and  that  is  the  habit  of 
requiring  pupils  to  trace  allusions,  quotations,  etc. 
The  practice  has  been  much  abused,  and  a  warning 
seems  especially  necessary  in  the  study  of  a  writer 


PREFACE  9 

like  Macaulay,  who  crowds  his  pages  with  instances 
and  illustrations.  It  is  profitable  to  follow  him  in 
the  process  of  bringing  together  a  dozen  things  to 
enforce  his  point,  but  it  is  not  profitable  to  reverse 
the  process  and  allow  ourselves  to  be  led  away  from 
the  subject  in  hand  into  a  multitude  of  unrelated 
matters.  Such  practices  are  ruinous  to  the  intel- 
lect. We  must  concentrate  attention,  not  dissi- 
pate it.  Only  when  we  fail  to  catch  the  full 
significance  of  an  allusion,  should  we  look  it  up. 
Then  we  must  see  to  it  that  we  bring  back  from 
our  research  just  what  occasioned  the  allusion,  just 
what  bears  on  the  immediate  passage.  Other  facts 
will  be  picked  up  by  the  way  and  may  come  use- 
ful in  good  time,  but  for  the  purpose  of  our  pres- 
ent study  we  should  insist  on  the  vital  relation  of 
every  fact  contributed. 

So  earnest  am  I  upon  this  point  that  I  must 
illustrate.  At  one  place  Macaulay  writes:  "Do 
we  believe  that  Erasmus  and  Fracastorius  wrote 
Latin  as  well  as  Dr.  Robertson  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott  wrote  English?  And  are  there  not  in  the 
Dissertation  on  India,  the  last  of  Dr.  Robertson's 
works,  in  Waverley,  in  Marmion,  Scotticisms  at 
which  a  London  apprentice  would  laugh?"  Why 
should  we  be  told  (to  pick  out  one  of  these  half- 
dozen  allusions)  that  Dr.  Robertson's  first  name  was 
William,  that  he  lived  from  1721  to  1793,  and 
that  he  wrote  such  and  such  books?  With  all 
respect  for  the  memory  of  Dr.  Robertson,  I  submit 


10  PREFACE 

that  this  is  not  the  place  to  learn  about  him  and 
his  histories.  Macaulay's  allusion  to  him  is  not 
explained  in  the  least  by  giving  his  date.  Yet 
there  is  something  here  to  interpret,  simple  though 
it  be.  Let  us  put  questions  until  we  are  sure  that 
the  pupil  understands  that  Dr.  Robertson,  being  a 
Scot,  could  not  write  wholly  idiomatic  English — 
English,  say,  of  the  London  type — and  that  thi3  is 
one  illustration  of  the  general  truth  that  a  man 
can  write  with  purity  only  in  his  native  tongue. 
It  is  such  exercises  in  interpretation  that  I  should 
like  to  see  substituted  for  the  disastrous  game  of 
hunting  allusions. 

I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  I  have  achieved  con- 
sistency in  my  own  notes  and  glossary.  To  recur 
to  the  illustration  above,  I  have  omitted  the  name 
of  Dr.  Robertson,  because  Macaulay  seems  to  tell 
us  enough  about  him,  while  I  have  added  a  few 
words  about  Fracastorius  in  order  that  he  may  be 
to  the  reader  something  more  than  a  name.  But 
I  cannot  help  suspecting  that  it  is  a  waste  of 
energy  for  any  one  to  try  to  impress  even  this  name 
on  his  mind,  and  I  should  be  quite  satisfied  that  a 
pupil  of  mine  should  never  look  it  up,  provided 
he  had  alertness  enough  to  see  that  Fracastorius 
wrote  in  Latin  though  he  was  not  a  Roman,  and 
discrimination  enough  to  feel  that  there  are  other 
allusions  of  an  entirely  different  character  which 
must  be  looked  up. 

The  glossary  aims  to  include    only  names   and 


PREFACE  11 

terms  not  familiar  or  easily  found  (provided  they 
need  explaining),  and  also  names  which,  though 
easily  found,  call  for  some  special  comment.  In 
general,  when  allusions  are  self -explaining,  we 
should  rest  content  with  our  text.  In  the  first 
paragraph  of  the  essay  on  Milton,  for  example, 
one  Mr.  Lemon  is  mentioned.  Doubtless  the 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography  would  tell  us 
something  more  about  him,  but  Macaulay  tells  us 
all  we  need  to  know.  Again,  there  is  a  reference 
to  a  fairy  story  told  by  Ariosto.  But  all  the  neces- 
sary details  are  given  and  it  will  be  idle  to  hunt 
the  story  up  in  order  to  cite  chapter  and  verse  for 
it,  though  of  course  if  one  wants  to  read  Ariosto, 
let  him  do  so  by  all  means — that  is  a  different 
thing.  On  the  other  hand,  an  allusion  to  the  lion 
in  a  certain  fable  is  not  made  so  clear,  because 
Macaulay  takes  it  for  granted  that  we  know  the 
fable.  If  we  do  not,  we  must  look  it  up.  So, 
also,  with  such  phrases  as  "the  Ciceronian  gloss," 
"the  doubts  of  the  Academy,"  "the  pride  of  the 
Portico."  I  could  have  wished  to  insert  into 
the  glossary  nothing  which  an  intelligent  pupil 
could  find  for  himself,  though  here  an  editor 
must  sin  a  little  in  excess  for  the  sake  of  schools 
and  homes  not  well  equipped  with  libraries.  I 
have  tried  to  decide  each  case  upon  its  merits  in 
the  interest  of  genuine  education,  and  only  those 
who  have  attempted  a  similar  task  will  understand 
its  difficulties. 


12  PREFACE 

The  text  adopted  is  that  of  Lady  Trevelyan's 
edition,  with  very  slight  changes  in  spelling,  punc- 
tuation, and  capitals.  A.  G.  N. 

Stanford  University,  May,  1899. 


CONTENTS 

PA«E 

Preface        ...                .  7 

Introduction    ........  15 

Chronologv  and  Bibliography      .  43 
The  Essays: 

Milton 45 

The  Life  and  Writings  of  Addison    .        .        .  125 

Notes     .  250 

Glossary                                                                .  268 


INTRODUCTION  ■ 


When,  in   1825,  Francis  Jeffrey,  Editor  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  searching   for    "some    clever 

l.Macamay'SAd-y°l™g    man    wh°    WOllld   Wfite    f°r 

vent  in  the  Edin- us,"  laid  his  hands  upon  Thomas 
burgh  Review,     Bakington  Macaulay,  he  did  not 

know  that  he  was  marking  a  red-letter  day  in  the 
calendar  of  English  journalism.  Through  the  two 
decades  and  more  of  its  existence,  the  Review  had 
gone  on  serving  its  patrons  with  the  respectable 
dulness  of  Lord  Brougham  and  the  respectable 
vivacity  of  its  editor,  and  the  patrons  had  appar- 
ently dreamed  of  nothing  better  until  the 
momentous  August  when  the  young  Fellow  of 
Trinity,  not  yet  twenty-rive,  flashed  upon  its  pages 
with  his  essay  on  Milton.  And  for  the  next  two 
decades  the  essays  that  followed  from  the  same  pen 
became  so  far  the  mainstay  of  the  magazine  that 
booksellers  declared  it  "sold,  or  did  not  sell, 
according  as  there  were,  or  were  not,  articles  by 
Mr.  Macaulay."  Yet  Jeffrey  was  not  without 
some  inkling  of  the  significance  of  the  event,  for 
upon  receipt  of  the  first  manuscript  he  wrote  to  its 
author  the  words  so  often  quoted:  "The  more  I 
think,  the  less   I  can  conceive  where  you  picked 

15 


16  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

up  that  style. r'  Thus  early  was  the  finger  of 
criticism  pointed  toward  the  one  thing  that  has 
always  been  most  conspicuously  associated  with 
Macaulay's  name. 

English  prose,  at  this  date,  was  still  clinging  to 

the  traditions  of  its  measured  eighteenth-century 

stateliness.       But     the    life    had 

2.  Effect  on  Prose.  . 

nearly  gone  out  of  it,  and  the 
formalism  which  sat  so  elegantly  upon  Addison 
and  not  uneasily  upon  Johnson  had  stiffened  into 
pedantry,  scarcely  relieved  by  the  awkward 
attempts  of  the  younger  journalists  to  give  it  spirit 
and  freedom.  It  was  this  languishing  prose  which 
Macaulay,  perhaps  more  than  any  other  one  writer, 
deserves  the  credit  of  rejuvenating  with  that 
wonderful  something  which  Jeffrey  was  pleased 
to  call  ''style."  Macaulay  himself  would  certainly 
have  deprecated  the  association  of  his  fame  with  a 
mere  synonym  for  rhetoric,  and  we  should  be 
wronging  him  if  we  did  not  hasten  to  add  that 
style,  rightly  understood,  is  a  very  large  and 
significant  thing,  comprehending,  indeed,  a  man's 
whole  intellectual  and  emotional  attitude  toward 
those  phases  of  life  with  which  he  comes  into  con- 
tact. It  is  the  man's  manner  of  reacting  upon  the 
world,  his  manner  of  expressing  himself  to  the 
world;  and  the  world  has  little  beyond  the  man- 
ner of  a  man's  expression  by  which  to  judge  of  the 
man  himself.  But  a  good  style,  even  in  its  nar- 
row sense  of  a  good  command  of  language,  of  a 


INTRODUCTION  1? 

masterly  and  individual  manner  of  presenting 
thought,  is  yet  no  mean  accomplishment,  and  if 
Macaulay  had  done  nothing  else  than  revivify 
English  prose,  which  is,  just  possibly,  his  most 
enduring  achievement,  he  would  have  little  reason 
to  complain.  What  he  accomplished  in  this 
direction  and  how,  it  is  our  chief  purpose  here  to 
explain.  In  the  meantime  we  shall  do  well  to 
glance  at  his<  other  achievements  and  take  some 
note  of  his  equipment. 

Praed  has  left  this  description  of  him:     "There 

came  up  a  short,  manly  figure,  marvelously  upright, 

with  a    bad    neckcloth,  and    one 

3.  The  Man.  ,-..».  .  -,  *« 

hand  in  his  waistcoat-pocket. 
We  read  here,  easily  enough,  brusqueness,  pre- 
cision  without  fastidiousness,  and  self-confidence. 
These  are  all  prominent  traits  of  the  man,  and 
they  all  show  in  his  work.  Add  kindness  and 
moral  rectitude,  which  scarcely  show  there,  and 
humor,  which  shows  only  in  a  somewhat  unpleasant  v  y 
light,  and  you  have  a  fair  portrait.  Now  these  are 
manifestly  the  attributes  of  a  man  who  knows 
what  worldly  comfort  and  physical  well-being  are, 
a  man  of  good  digestive  and  assimilative  powers, 
well-fed,  incapable  of  worry,  born  to  succeed. 

In  truth,  Macaulay  was  a  man  of  remarkable 
vitality  and  energy,  and  though  ■  he  died  too  early 
— at  the  beginning  of  his  sixtieth  year — he  began 
his  work  young  and  continued  it  with  almost 
unabated  vigor  to  the  end.     But  his  "work"  (as 


18  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

we  are  in  the  habit  of  naming  that  which  a  man 
leaves  behind  him),  voluminous  as  it  is,  represents 
only  one  side  of  his  activity.  There  was  the 
early-assumed  burden  of  repairing  his  father's 
broken  fortunes,  and  providing  for  the  family  of 
younger  brothers  and  sisters.  The  burden,  it  is 
true,  was  assumed  with  characteristic  cheerfulness 
— it  could  not  destroy  for  him  the  worldly  comfort 
we  have  spoken  of — but  it  entailed  heavy  responsi- 
bilities for  a  young  man.  It  forced  him  to  seek 
salaried  positions,  such  as  the  post  of  commissioner 
of  bankruptcy,  when  he  might  have  been  more 
congenially  employed.  Then  there  were  the  many 
years  spent  in  the  service  of  the  government  as  a 
Whig  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  as 
Cabinet  Minister  during  the  exciting  period  of  the 
Reform  Bill  and  the  Anti-Corn-Law  League,  with 
all  that  such  service  involved — study  of  politics, 
canvassing,  countless  dinners,  public  and  private, 
speech-making  in  Parliament  and  out,  reading  and 
making  reports,  endless  committee  meetings,  end- 
less sessions.  There  were  the  three  years  and  a 
half  spent  in  India,  drafting  a  penal  code.  And 
there  was,  first  and  last,  the  acquisition  of  the 
knowledge  that  made  possible  this  varied  activity, 
— the  years  at  the  University,  the  study  of  law  and 
jurisprudence,  the  reading,  not  of  books,  but  of 
entire  national  literatures,  the  ransacking  of 
libraries  and  the  laborious  deciphering  of  hundreds 
of     manuscripts     in     the     course     of     historical 


INTRODUCTION  19 

research.  Perhaps  we  fall  into  Macaulay's  trick 
of  exaggeration,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  exaggerate  the 
mental  feats  of  a  man  who  could  carry  in  his 
memory  works  like  Paradise  Lost  and  Pilgrim" s 
Progress  and  who  was  able  to  put  it  on  record 
that  in  thirteen  months  he  had  read  thirty  clas- 
sical authors,  most  of  them  entire  and  many  of 
them  twice,  and  among  them  such  voluminous 
writers  as  Euripides,  Herodotus,  Plato,  Plutarch, 
Livy,  and  Cicero.  Nor  was  the  classical  literature 
a  special  field;  Italian,  Spanish,  French,  and  the 
wildernesses  of  the  English  drama  and  the  Eng- 
lish novel  (not  excluding  the  "trashy")  were  all 
explored.  We  may  well  be  astounded  that  the 
man  who  could  do  all  these  things  in  a  lifetime 
of  moderate  compass,  and  who  was  besides  such  a 
tireless  pedestrian  that  he  was  "forever  on  his  feet 
indoors  as  well  as  out,"  could  find  time  to  produce 
so  much  literature  of  his  own. 

That  literature — so  to  style  the  body  of  work 

which  has  survived  him — divides  itself  into  at  least 

five    divisions.      There  are,  first, 

4.  His  Work.  '  ' 

the  Essays,  which  he  produced 
at  intervals  all  through  life.  There  are  the 
Speeches  which  were  delivered  on  the  floor  of 
Parliament  between  his  first  election  in  1830  and 
his  last  in  1852,  and  which  rank  very  high  in  that 
grade  of  oratory  which  is  just  below  the  highest. 
There  is  the  Indian  Penal  Code,  not  altogether  his 
own  work  and  not  literature  of  course,  yet  praised 


SO  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

by  Justice  Stephen  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  satisfactory  instruments  of  its  kind  ever 
drafted.  There  -are  the  Poems,  published  in 
1842,  adding  little  to  his  fame  and  not  a  great 
deal  to  English  literature,  yet  very  respectable 
achievements  in  the  field  of  the  modern  romantic 
ballad.  Finally,  there  is  the  unfinished  History  of 
England  from  the  Accession  of  James  the  Second, 
his  last,  his  most  ambitious,  and  probably,  all 
things  considered,  his  most  successful  work. 

The  History  and  Essays  comprise  virtually  all  of 
this  product  that  the  present  generation  cares  to 
5.  History  of      read.     Upon  the  History,  indeed, 
England.        Macaulay    staked    his    claim    to 
future  remembrance,  regarding  it  as  the  great  work 
of  his  life.     He  was  exceptionally  well  equipped 
for  the  undertaking.     He  had  such  a  grasp  of  uni- 
versal history  as  few  men  have  been  able  to  secure, 
and  a  detailed  knowledge  of  the  period  of  English 
history  under    contemplation    equalled    by  none. 
But  he  delayed  the  undertaking  too  long,  and  he 
allowed  his  time  and  energy  to  be  dissipated  in 
obedience  to  party  calls.     Death  overtook  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  labors.     Even  thus,  it  is  clear 
that  he  underestimated  the  magnitude  of  the  task 
he  had  set  himself.     For  he  proposed  to  cover  a 
period  of  nearly  a  century  and  a  half;    the  four 
volumes  and  a  fraction  which  he  completed  actually 
cover  about  fifteen  years.     His  plan  involved  too 
much  detail.     It  has  been  called  pictorial  history 


INTRODUCTION  21 

writing,  and  snch  it  was.  History  was  to  be  as 
vital  and  as  human  as  romance.  It  was  to  be  in 
every  sense  a  restoration  of  the  life  of  the  past. 
Macaulay  surely  succeeded  in  this  aim,  as  his 
fascinating  third  chapter  will  always  testify; 
whether  the  aim  were  a  laudable  one,  we  cannot 
stop  here  to  discuss.  Historians  will  continue  to 
point  out  the  defects  of  the  work,  its  diffuseness, 
its  unphilosophical  character,  perhaps  its  partisan 
spirit.  But  it  remains  a  magnificent  fragment,  and 
it  will  be  read  by  thousands  who  could  never  be 
persuaded  to  look  into  dryer  though  possibly 
sounder  works.  Indeed,  there  is  no  higher  tribute^ 
to  its  greatness  than  the  objection  that  has  some- 
times been  brought  against  it,  namely,  that  it 
treats  a  comparatively  unimportant  era  of  Eng- 
land's history  with  such  fulness  and  brilliance,  and 
has  attracted  to  it  so  manv  readers,  that  the  other 
eras  are  thrown  sadly  out  of  perspective. 

But  Macaulay 's  name  is  popularly  associated 
with  that  body  of  Essays  which  in  bulk  alone 
(always  excepting  Sainte- 
Beuve's)  are  scarcely  exceeded 
by  the  product  of  any  other  essay-writer  in  an 
essay-writing  age.  And  the  popular  judgment 
which  has  insisted  upon  holding  to  this  sup- 
posedly ephemeral  work  is  not  far  wrong.  With 
all  their  faults  upon  them,  until  we  have  something 
better  in  kind  to  replace  them,  we  cannot  consent 
to  let  them  go.     In  one  sense,  their  range  is  not 


22  MACAULAYS  ESSAYS 

wide,  for  they  fall  naturally  into  but  two  divisions, 
the  historical  and  the  critical.  To  these  Mr. 
Morison  would  add  a  third,  the  controversial, 
comprising  the  four  essays  on  Mill,  Sadler, 
Southey,  and  Gladstone ;  but  these  are  comparatively 
unimportant.  In  another  sense,  however,  their 
range  is  very  wide.  For  each  one  gathers  about  a 
central  subject  a  mass  of  details  that  in  the  hands 
of  any  other  writer  would  be  bewildering,  while 
the  total  knowledge  that  supports  the  bare  arrays 
of  fact  and  perpetual  press  of  allusions  betrays  a 
scope  that,  to  the  ordinary  mind,  is  quite  beyond 
comprehension. 

And  the  more  remarkable  must  this  work  appear 
when  we  consider  the  manner  of  its  production. 
Most  of  the  essays  were  published  anonymously  in 
the  Edinburgh  Revieiv,  a  few  early  ones  in 
Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,  five  (those  on 
Atterbury,  Bunyan,  Goldsmith,  Johnson,  and 
Pitt),  written  late  in  life,  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica.  The  writing  of  them  was  always  an 
avocation  with  Macanlay,  never  a  vocation.  Those 
produced  during  his  parliamentary  life  were  usually 
written  .in  the  hoars  between  early  rising  and 
breakfast..  Some  were  composed  at  a  distance 
from  his  books.  He  scarcely  dreamed  of  their 
living  beyond  the  quarter  of  their  publication,  cer- 
tainly not  beyond  the  generation  for  whose  enter- 
tainment they  were  written  with  all  the  devices  to 
catch  applause  and  all  the  disregard  of  permanent 


INTRODUCTION  23 

merit  which  writing  for  such  a  purpose  invites. 
He  could  scarcely  be  induced,  even  after  they  were 
pirated  and  republished  in  America,  to  reissue 
them  in  a  collected  edition,  with  his  revision  and 
under  his  name.  These  facts  should  be  remem- 
bered in  mitigation  of  the  severe  criticism  to  which 
they  are  sometimes  subjected. 

Between  the  historical  and  the  critical  essays  we 
are  not  called  upon  to  decide,  though  the  decision 
is  by  no  means  difficult.  Macaulay  was  essentially 
a  historian,  a  story-teller,  and  the  historical  essay, 
or  short  monograph  on  the  events  of  a  single  period 
that  usually  group  themselves  about  some  great 
statesman  or  soldier,  he  made  peculiarly  his  own. 
He  did  not  invent  it,  as  Mr.  Morison  points  out, 
but  he  expanded  and  improved  it  until  he  "left  it 
complete  and  a  thing  of  power."  Fully  a  score  of 
his  essays — more  than  half  the  total  number — are 
of  this  description,  the  most  and  the  best  of  them 
dealing  with  English  historv.  Chief  among  them 
are  the  essays  on  Hallam,  Temple,  the  Pitts,  Clive, 
and  "Warren  Hastings.  The  critical  essays — upon 
Johnson,  Addison,  Bunyan,  and  other  men  of 
letters — are  in  every  way  as  admirable  reading  asv 
the  historical.  They  must  take  a  lower  rank  only 
because  Macaulay  lacked  some  of  the  prime 
requisites  of  a  successful  critic — broad  and  deep 
sympathies,  refined  tastes,  and  nice  perception  of 
the  more  delicate  tints  and  shadings  that  count  for 
almost   everything  in   a  work  of   high  art.     His 


24  MACAULAYrS   ESSAYS 

critical  judgments  are  likely  to  be  blunt,  positive, 
and  superficial.  But  they  are  never  actually  shal- 
low and  rarely  without  a  modicum  of  truth.  And 
%they  are  never  uninteresting.  For,  true  to  his 
narrative  instinct,  he  always  interweaves  biog- 
raphy. And  besides,  the  essays  have  the  same 
rhetorical  qualities  that  mark  with  distinction 
all  the  prose  he  has  written,  that  is  to  say,  the 
same  masterly  method  and  the  same  compelling 
style.  It  is  to  this  method  and  style,  that,  after 
our  rapid  review  of  Macaulay's  aims  and  accom- 
plishments, we  are  now  ready  to  turn. 

There  were  two  faculties  of  Macaulay's  mind 
that  set  his  work  far  apart  from  other  work  in 

7.  organizing  the  same  field — the  faculties  of 
Faculty.  organization  and  illustration. 
He  saw  things  in  their  right  relation  and  he  knew 
how  to  make  others  see  them  thus.  If  he  was 
describing,  he  never  thrust  minor  details  into  the 
foreground.  If  he  was  narrating,  he  never  "got 
ahead  of  his  story."  The  importance  of  this  is  not 
sufficiently  recognized.  Many  writers  do  not  know 
what  organization  means.  They  do  not  know  that 
in  all  great  and  successful  literary  work  it  is  nine- 
tenths  of  the  labor.  Yet  consider  a  moment. 
History  is  a  very  complex  thing:  divers  events  may 
be  simultaneous  in  their  occurrence;  or  one  crisis 
may  be  slowly  evolving  from  many  causes  in  many 
places.  It  is  no  light  task  to  tell  these  things  one 
after  another  and  yet  leave  a  unified  impression,  to 


INTRODUCTION  25 

take  np  a  dozen  new  threads  in  succession  without 
tangling  them  and  without  losing  the  old  ones,  and 
to  lay  them  all  down  at  the  right  moment  and 
without  confusion.  Such  is  the  narrator's  task, 
and  it  was  at  this  task  that  Macaulay  proved  him- 
self a  past  master.  He  could  dispose  of  a  number 
of  trivial  events  in  a  single  sentence.  Thus,  for 
example,  runs  his  account  of  the  dramatist 
AVycherley's  naval  career:  "He  embarked,  was 
present  at  a  battle,  and  celebrated  it,  on  his 
return,  in  a  copy  of  verses  too  bad  for  the  bell- 
man." On  the  other  hand,  when  it  is  a  question 
of  a  great  crisis,  like  the  impeachment  of  Warren 
Hastings,  he  knew  how  to  prepare  for  it  with 
elaborate  ceremony  and  to  portray  it  in  a  scene  of 
the  highest  dramatic  power. 

This  faculty  of  organization  shows  itself  in  what 
we  technically  name  structure;  and  logical  and 
rhetorical  structure  may  be  studied  at  their  very  best , 
in  his  work.  His  essays  are  perfect  units,  made 
up  of  many  parts,  systems  within  systems,  that 
play  together  without  clog  or  friction.  You  can 
take  them  apart  like  a  watch  and  put  them 
together  again.  But  try  to  rearrange  the  parts  and 
the  mechanism  is  spoiled.  Each  essay  has  its 
subdivisions,  which  in  turn  are  groups  of  para- 
graphs. And  each  paragraph  is  a  unit.  Take  the 
first  paragraph  of  the  essay  on  Milton :  the  word 
manuscript  appears  in  the  first  sentence,  and  it 
reappears  in  the  last ;    clearly  the  paragraph  deals 


26  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

with  a  single  very  definite  topic.  And  so  with  all. 
Of  course  the  unity  manifests  itself  in  a  hundred 
ways,  but  it  is  rarely  wanting.  Most  frequently  it 
takes  the  form  of  an  expansion  of  a  topic  given  in 
the  first  sentence,  or  a  preparation  for  a  topic  to 
be  announced  only  in  the  last.  These  initial  and 
final  sentences — often  in  themselves  both  aphoristic 
and  memorable — serve  to  mark  with  the  utmost 
clearness  the  different  stages  in  the  progress  of  the 
essay. 

Illustration  is  of  more  incidental  service,  but  as 
used  by  Macaulay  becomes  highly  organic.     For 

s.  illustrating  his  illustrations  are  not  far- 
Facuity.  fetched  or  laboriously  worked 
out.  They  seem  to  be  of  one  piece  with  his  story 
or  his  argument.  His  mind  was  quick  to  detect  re- 
semblances and  analogies.  He  was  ready  with  a 
comparison  for  everything,  sometimes  with  half  a 
dozen.  For  example,  Addison's  essays,  he  has 
occasion  to  say,  were  different  every  day  of  the  week, 
and  yet,  to  his  mind,  each  day  like  something — 
like  Horace,  like  Lucian,  like  the  "Tales  of 
Scheherezade."  He  draws  long  comparisons 
between  Walpole  and  Townshend,  between  Con- 
greve  and  Wycherley,  between  Essex  and  Villiers, 
between  the  fall  of  the  Carlovingians  and  the  fall 
of  the  Moguls.  He  follows  up  a  general  statement 
with  swarms  of  instances.  Have  historians  been 
given  to  exaggerating  the  villainy  of  Machiavelli? 
Macaulay  can  name  you  half  a  dozen  who  did  so. 


INTRODUCTION  27 

Did  the  writers  of  Charles's  faction  delight  in  mak- 
ing their  opponents  appear  contemptible?  "The}' 
have  told  us  that  Pym  broke  down  in  a  speech, 
that  Ireton  had  his  nose  pulled  by  Hollis,  that  the 
Earl  of  Northumberland  cudgelled  Henry  Marten, 
that  St.  John's  manners  were  sullen,  that  Vane 
had  an  ugly  face,  that  Cromwell  had  a  red  nose." 
Do  men  fail  when  they  quit  their  own  province  for 
another?  Newton  failed  thus ;  Bentley  failed ;  Inigo 
Jones  failed;  Wilkie  failed.  In  the  same  way  he 
was  ready  with  quotations.  He  writes  in  one  of 
his  letters:  "It  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  a  man 
with  a  very  strong  memory  to  read  very  much.  I 
could  give  you  three  or  four  quotations  this 
moment  in  support  of  that  proposition ;  but  I  will 
bring  the  vicious  propensity  under  subjection,  if  I 
can."  Thus  we  see  his  mind  doing  instantly  and 
involuntarily  what  other  minds  do  with  infinite 
pains,  bringing  together  all  things  that  have  a 
likeness  or  a  common  bearing. 

Both  of  these  faculties,  for  organization  and  for 

illustration,  are  to  be  partially  explained  by  his 

marvelous  memory.     As  we  have 

9.  Memory.  ^ 

seen,  he  read  everything,  and  he 
seems  to  have  been  incaj^able  of  forgetting  any- 
thing. The  immense  advantage  which  this  gave 
him  over  other  men  is  obvious.  He  who  carries 
his  library  in  his  mind  wastes  no  time  in  turning 
up  references.  And  surveying  the  whole  field  of 
his  knowledge  at  once,  with  outlines  and  details 


28  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

all  in  immediate  range,  he  should  be  able  to  see 
things  in  their  natural  perspective.  Of  course  it 
does  not  follow  that  a  great  memory  will  always 
enable  a  man  to  systematize  and  synthesize,  but  it 
should  make  it  easier  for  its  possessor  than  for  other 
men,  while  the  power  of  ready  illustration  which 
it  affords  him  is  beyond  question. 

It  is  precisely  these  talents   that  set  Macaulay 
among  the  simplest    and  clearest   of   writers,   and 

10.  Clearness  and   that     aCCOUllt      for      much     of      his 

simplicity.  popularity.  People  found  that  in 
taking  up  one  of  his  articles  they  simply  read  on 
and  on,  never  puzzling  over  the  meaning  of  a 
sentence,  getting  the  exact  force  of  every  state- 
ment, and  following  the  trend  of  thought  with 
scarcely  a  mental  effort.  And  his  natural  gift  of 
making  things  plain  he  took  pains  to  support  by 
various  devices.  He  constructed  his  sentences 
after  the  simplest  normal  fashion,  subject  and 
verb  and  object,  sometimes  inverting  for  emphasis, 
but  rarely  complicating,  and  always  reducing 
expression  to  the  barest  terms.  He  could  write, 
for  example,  "One  advantage  the  chaplain  had," 
but  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  his  writing, 
"Now  amid  all  the  discomforts  and  disadvantages 
with  which  the  unfortunate  chaplain  was  sur- 
rounded, there  was  one  thing  which  served  to  offset 
them,  and  which,  if  he  chose  to  take  the  oppor. 
tunity  of  enjoying  it,  might  well  be  regarded  as  a 
positive  advantage."     One  will  search  his  pages  in 


INTRODUCTION  89 

vain  for  loose,  trailing  clauses  and  involved  con- 
structions. His  vocabulary  was  of  the  same  simple 
nature.  He  had  a  complete  command  of  ordinary 
English  and  contented  himself  with  that.  He 
rarely  ventured  beyond  the  most  abridged  diction- 
ary. An  occasional  technical  term  might  be  re- 
quired, but  he  was  shy  of  the  unfamiliar.  He 
would  coin  no  words  and  he  would  use  no 
archaisms.  Foreign  words,  when  fairly  naturalized, 
he  employed  sparingly.  "We  shall  have  no  dis- 
putes about  diction,"  he  wrote  to  Napier,  Jeffrey's 
successor;  "the  English  language  is  not  so  poor 
but  that  I  may  very  well  find  in  it  the  means  of 
contenting  both  you  and  myself." 

Now  all  of  these  things  are  wholly  admirable, 

and  if  they  constituted  the  sum  total  of  Macaulay's 

method,  as  thev  certainlv  do  con- 

11.  Force.  .  .    *  J 

stitute  the  chief  features  of  it,  we 
should  pass  our  word  of  praise  and  have  done. 
But  he  did  not  stop  here,  and  often,  unfortun- 
ately too  often,  these  things  are  not  thought  of  at 
all  by  those  who  profess  to  speak  knowingly  of  his 
wonderful  "style."  For  in  addition  to  clearness  he 
sought  also  force,  an  entirely  legitimate  object  in 
itself  and  one  in  which  he  was  merely  giving  way  to 
his  oratorical  or  journalistic  instinct.  Only,  his 
fondness  for  effect  led  him  too  far  and  into  various 
mannerisms,  some  of  which  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  approve.  There  is  no  question  that  they  are 
powerfully  effective,   as  they  were  meant  to   be, 


30  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

often  rightly  so,  and  they  are  exceedingly  interest- 
ing to  study,  but  for  these  very  reasons  the  student 
needs  to  be  warned  against  attaching  to  them  an 
undue  importance. 

Perhaps  no  one  will  quarrel  with  his  liking  for 

the  specific  and  the  concrete.     This  indeed  is  not 

mannerism.       It    is   the    natural 

12.  Concreteness.  .  ,  . 

working  of  the  imaginative  mind, 
of  the  picturing  faculty,  and  is  of  the  utmost  value 
in  forceful,  vivid  writing.  The  "ruffs  and  peaked 
beards  of  Theobald's"  make  an  excellent  passing 
allusion  to  the  social  life  of  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  James  the  First.  The  manoeuvres 
of  an  army  become  intensely  interesting  when  we 
see  it  "pouring  through  those  wild  passes  which, 
worn  by  mountain  torrents  and  dark  with  jungle, 
lead  down  from  the  table-land  of  Mysore  to  the 
plains  of  the  Carnatic."  A  reference  to  the 
reputed  learning  of  the  English  ladies  of  the  six- 
teenth century  is  most  cunningly  put  in  the  picture 
of  "those  fair  pupils  of  Ascham  and  Aylmer  who 
compared,  over  their  embroidery,  the  styles  of 
Isocrates  and  Lysias,  and  who,  while  the  horns 
were  sounding,  and  the  dogs  in  full  cry,  sat  in  the 
lonely  oriel,  with  eyes  riveted  to  that  immortal 
page  which  tells  how  meekly  the  first  great  martyr 
of  intellectual  liberty  took  the  cup  from  his  weep- 
ing gaoler."  But  when  his  eagerness  for  the  con- 
cretely picturesque  leads  him  to  draw  a  wholly 
imaginary  picture  of  how  it  may  have  come  about 


INTRODUCTION  31 

that  Addison  had  Steele  arrested  for  debt,  we  are 
quite  ready  to  protest. 

His  tendency  to  exaggerate,  moreover,  and  his 

love     of     paradox,    belong    in    a    very    different 

category.      Let  the  reader   count 

13.  Exaggeration.  n 

the  strong  words,  superlatives, 
aniversal  propositions,  and  the  like,  employed  in  a 
characteristic  passage,  and  he  will  understand  at 
once  what  is  meant.  In  the  essay  on  Frederic  the 
Great  we  read:  "No  sovereign  has  ever  taken 
possession  of  a  throne  by  a  clearer  title.  All  the 
politics  of  the  Austrian  cabinet  had,  during  twenty 
years,  been  directed  to  one  single  end — the  settle- 
ment of  the  succession.  From  every  person  whose 
rights  could  be  considered  as  injuriously  affected, 
renunciations  in  the  most  solemn  form  had  been 
obtained."  And  not  content  with  the  ordinary 
resources  of  language,  he  has  a  trick  of  raising 
superlatives  themselves,  as  it  were,  to  the  second 
or  third  power.  "There  can  be  little  doubt  that 
this  great  empire  was,  even  in  its  best  days,  far 
worse  governed  than  the  worst  governed  parts  of 
Europe  now  are."  "What  the  Italian  is  to  the 
Englishman,  what  the  Hindoo  is  to  the  Italian, 
what  the  Bengalee  is  to  other  Hindoos,  that  was 
Nuncomar  to  other  Bengalees."  It  is  evident  that 
this  habit  is  a  positive  vice.  He  tried  to  excuse  it 
on  the  ground  that  there  is  some  inevitable  loss  in 
the  communication  of  a  fact  from  one  mind  to 
another,  and  that  over-statement  is  necessary  to 


3£  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

correct  the  error.  But  the  argument  is  fallacious. 
Macaulay  did  not  have  a  monopoly  of  the  imagi- 
native faculty:  other  men  are  as  much  given  to 
exaggeration  as  he,  and  stories,  as  they  pass  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  invariably  "grow." 

His  constant  resort  to  antithesis  to  point  his 
statements  is  another  vice.  "That  government," 
14.  Antithesis  and  he  writes  of  the  English  rule  in 
Balance.  India,  "oppressive  as  the  most 
oppressive  form  of  barbarian  des])otism,  was  strong 
with  all  the  strength  of  civilization."  Again: 
"The  Puritan  had  affected  formality;  the  comic 
poet  laughed  at  decorum.  The  Puritan  had 
frowned  at  innocent  diversions;  the  comic  poet 
took  under  his  patronage  the  most  flagitious 
excesses.  The  Puritan  had  canted;  the  comic 
poet  blasphemed."  And  so  on,  through  a  para- 
graph. Somewhat  similar  to  this  is  his  practice  of 
presenting  the  contrary  of  a  statement  before  pre- 
senting the  statement  itself,  of  telling  us,  for 
example,  what  might  have  been  expected  to  happen 
before  telling  us  what  actually  did  happen.  It  is 
to  be  noticed  that,  accompanying  this  use  of 
antithesis  and  giving  it  added  force,  there  is 
usually  a  balance  of  form,  that  is,  a  more  or  less 
exact  correspondence  of  sentence  structure.  Given 
one  of  Macaulay 's  sentences  presenting  the  first 
part  of  an  antithesis,  it  is  sometimes  possible  to 
foretell,  word  for  word,  what  the  next  sentence 
will  be.     Such  mechanical  writing  is  certainly  not 


INTRODUCTION  33 

to  be  commended  as  a  model  of  style.  Of  course 
it  is  the  abuse  of  these  things  and  not  the  mere  use 
of  them  that  constitutes  Macaulay's  vice. 

There  are  still   other  formal  devices  which  he 

uses  so  freely  that  we  are  justified  in  calling  them 

mannerisms.       One    of    the  most 

15.  Minor  Devices.  .  . 

conspicuous  is  the  short  sentence, 
the  blunt,  unqualified  statement  of  one  thing  at  a 
time.  No  one  who  knows  Macaulay  would  hesitate 
over  the  authorship  of  the  following:  "The  shore 
was  rocky:  the  night  was  black:  the  wind  was 
furious :  the  wares  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay  ran  high." 
The  only  wonder  is  that  he  did  not  punctuate  it 
with  four  periods.  He  would  apparently  much 
rather  repeat  his  subject  and  make  a  new  sentence 
than  connect  his  verbs.  Instead  of  writing,  "He 
coaxed  and  wheedled,"  he  is  constantly  tempted 
to  write,  "He  coaxed,  he  wheedled,"  even  though 
the  practice  involves  prolonged  reiteration  of  one 
form.  The  omission  of  connectives — rhetorical 
"asyndeton" — becomes  itself  a  vice.  The  ands, 
t hens ,  there/ores,  liowevers,  the  reader  must  supply 
for  himself.  This  demands  alertness  and  helps  to 
sustain  interest ;  and  while  it  may  occasion  a 
momentary  perplexity,  it  will  rarely  do  so  when  the 
reader  comes  to  know  the  style  and  to  read  it  with 
the  right  swing.  But  it  all  goes  to  enforce  what 
Mr.  John  Morley  calls  the  "unlovely  staccato"  of 
the  style.  It  strikes  harsh  on  the  ear  and  on  the 
brain,  and  from  a  piquant  stimulant  becomes  an 


C$4  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

intolerable  weariness.  Separate  things  get 
emphasis,  but  the  nice  gradations  and  relations  are 
sacrificed. 

After  all,  though   we  stigmatize  these  things  as 

"devices,"  intimating  that  they  were  mechanical 

and    arbitrary,    we   must    regard 

16.  Dogmatism. 

them  as  partly  temperamental. 
Macaulay's  mind  was  not  subtle  in  its  working  and 
was  not  given  to  making  nice  distinctions.  He 
c°jed  chiefly  for  bold  outlines  and  broad  effects. 
Troth,  to  his  mind,  was  sharply  defined  from  false- 
hood, right  from  wrong,  good  from  evil.  Every- 
thing could  be  divided  from  everything  else, 
labeled,  and  pigeon-holed.  And  he  was  very 
certain,  in  the  fields  which  he  chose  to  enter,  that 
he  knew  where  to  draw  the  dividing  lines.  Posi- 
tiveness,  self-confidence,  are  written  all  over  his 
work.  Set  for  a  moment  against  his  method  the 
method  of  Matthew  Arnold.  This  is  how  Arnold 
tries  to  point  out  a  defect  in  modern  English 
eociety:  "And,  owing  to  the  same  causes,  does 
not  a  subtle  criticism  lead  us  to  make,  even  on  the 
good  looks  and  politeness  of  onr  aristocratic  class, 
and  even  of  the  most  fascinating  half  of  that  class, 
the  feminine  half,  the  one  qualifying  remark,  that 
in  these  charming  gifts  there  should  perhaps  be, 
for  ideal  perfection,  a  shade  more  soul?"  Note 
the  careful  approach,  the  constant,  anxious  qualifi- 
cation, working  up  to  a  climax  in  the  almost 
painful    hesitation     of    "a    shade — more — soul." 


INTRODUCTION  3.5 

Imagine,  if  you  can,  Macaulay,  the  rough  rider, 
he  of  the  "stamping  emphasis,"  winding  into  a 
truth  like  that.  But  indeed  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  imagine  Macaulay 'a  having  any  truth  at  all  to 
enunciate  about  so  ethereal  an  attribute  as  this 
same  so«l 

We  have  come  well  into  the  region  of  Macaulay's 
defects.      Clearness,   we  have  seen,   he  had  in  a 

17.  ornament,  remarkable  degree.  Force  he  also 
Rhythm.         jia(j     jn     a     remarkable    degree, 

though  he  frequently  abused  the  means  of  display- 
ing it.  But  genuine  beauty,  it  is  scarcely  too 
much  to  say,  he  had  not  at  all.  Of  course,  much 
depends  upon  our  definitions.  We  do  not  mean  to 
deny  to  his  writings  all  elements  of  charm.  The 
very  ease  of  his  mastery  over  so  many  resources  of 
composition  gives  pleasure  to  the  reader.  Kis 
frequent  picturesqueness  we  have  granted.  He 
can  be  genuinely  figurative,  though  his  figures 
often  incline  to  showiness.  And  above  all  he  has 
a  certain  sense  for  rhythm.  He  can  write  long, 
sweeping  sentences — periods  that  rise  and  descend 
with  the  feeling,  and  that  come  to  a  stately  or 
graceful  close.  The  sentence  cited  above  about 
the  learning  of  women  in  the  sixteenth  century 
may  be  taken  as  an  example.  Or  read  the  sketch 
of  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  third  paragraph  of 
the  essay  on  Yon  Ranke's  History  of  the  Popes,  or 
the  conclusion  of  the  essay  on  Lord  Holland,  or 
better  still  the  conclusion  of  the  somewhat  juvenile 


36  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

€8saj  on  Mitford's  Greece,  with  its  glowing  trib- 
ute to  Athens  and  its  famous  picture  of  the  "single 
naked  fisherman  washing  his  nets  in  the  river  of 
the  ten  thousand  masts."  But  at  best  it  is  the 
rhythm  of  mere  declamation,  swinging  and 
pompous.  There  is  no  fine  flowing  movement, 
nothing  like  the  entrancing  glides  of  a  waltz  or  the 
airy  steps  of  a  minuet,  but  only  a  steady  march  to 
the  interminable  and  monotonous  beat  of  the 
drum.  For  real  music,  sweetness,  subtle  and 
involved  harmony,  lingering  cadences,  we  turn  to 
any  one  of  a  score  of  prose  writers — Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  Addison,  Burke,  Lamb,  De  Quincey,  Haw- 
thorne, Kuskin,  Pater,  Stevenson — before  we  turn 
to  Macaulay.  Nor  is  there  any  other  mere  grace 
of  composition  in  which  he  can  be  said  to  excel. 

There  is  no  blame  in  the  matter.     We  are  only 

trying  to  note  dispassionately  the  defects  as  well 

is.  Tempera-     as  the  excellences  of  a  man  who 

mental  Defects.    was  not  a  universal  genius.      It 

would  be  easy  to  point  out  much  greater  defects 
than  any  yet  mentioned,  defects  that  go  deeper 
than  style.  One  or  two  indeed  we  are  obliged  to 
mention.  There  is  the  strain  of  coarseness  often 
to  be  noted  in  his  writing,  showing  itself  now  in  an 
abusive  epithet,  now  in  a  vulgar  catch -word,  now 
in  a  sally  of  humor  bordering  on  the  ribald.  It  is 
never  grossly  offensive,  but  it  is  none  the  less 
wounding  to  a  delicate  sensibility.  Then  there  is 
the  Philistine  attitude,  which  Mr.  Arnold  spent  so 


INTRODUCTION  37 

much  of  his  life  in  combating,  the  attitude  of  the 
complacent,  self-satisfied  Englishman,  who  sees  in 
the  British  constitution  and  the  organization  of  the 
British  empire  the  best  of  all  possible  governments, 
and  in  the  material  and  commercial  progress  of  the 
age  the  best  of  all  possible  civilizations.  And 
there  is  the  persistent  refusal  to  treat  questions  of 
really  great  moral  significance  upon  any  kind  of 
moral  basis.  The  absolute  right  or  wrong  of  an 
act  Macaulay  will  avoid  discussing  if  he  possibly 
can,  and  take  refuge  in  questions  of  policy,  of  sheer 
profit  and  loss.  We  shall  not  blame  him  severely 
for  even  these  serious  shortcomings.  On  the  first 
point  we  remember  that  he  was  deliberately  play- 
ing to  his  audience,  consciously  writing  down  to 
the  level  of  his  public.  On  the  second  we  realize 
that  he  was  a  practical  politician  and  that  he  never 
could  have  been  such  with  the  idealism  of  a  Car- 
lyle  or  a  Ruskin.  And  on  the  third  we  remember 
that  his  own  private  life  was  one  of  affectionate 
sacrifice  and  his  public  life  absolutely  stainless. 
He  could  vote  away  his  own  income  when  moral 
conviction  demanded  it.  Besides,  even  when 
he  was  only  arguing,  "policy"  was  always  on  the 
side  of  the  right.  What  blame  is  left?  Only 
this — that  he  should  have  pandered  to  any 
public,  compromising  his  future  fame  for  an 
ephemeral  applause,  and  that  he  should  have  so  far 
wronged  the  mass  of  his  readers  as  to  suppose  that 
arguments    based    upon    policy   would    be    more 


A 


38  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

acceptable  to  them  than  arguments  based  upon 
sound  moral  principles.  That  he  was  something  of 
a  Philistine  and  not  wholly  a  "child of  light,"  may 
be  placed  to  his  discount  but  not  to  his  discredit. 
The  total  indictment  is  small  and  is  mentioned 
here  only  in  the  interests  of  impartial  criticism. 

It  remains  only  to  sum  up  the  literary  signifi- 
cance of  Macaulay's  work.  Nearly  all  of  that 
19.  Literary  work,  we  must  remember,  lies 
significance.  0lltside  of  the  field  of  what  we 
know  as  "pure  literature."  Pure  literature — 
poetry,  drama,  fiction — is  a  pure  artistic  or  imagi- 
native product  with  entertainment  as  its  chief  aim. 
Though  it  may  instruct  incidentally,  it  does  not 
merely  inform.  It  is  the  work  of  creative  genius. 
Macaulay's  essays  were  meant  to  inform.  Char- 
acters and  situations  are  delineated  in  them,  bnt 
not  created.  History  and  criticism  are  often  not 
literature  at  all.  They  become  literature  only 
by  revealing  an  imaginative  insight  and  clothing 
themselves  in  artistic  form.  Macaulay's  essays 
have  done  this ;  they  engage  the  emotions  as  well 
as  the  intellect.  They  were  meant  for  records, 
for  storehouses  of  information ;  but  they  are  also 
works  of  art,  and  therefore  they  live  intact  while 
the  records  of  equally  industrious  but  less  gifted 
historians  are  revised  and  replaced.  Thus  by  their 
artistic  quality,  style  in  a  word,  they  are  removed 
from  the  shelves  of  history  to  the  shelves  of  litera- 
ture. 


INTRODUCTION  39 

It  becomes  plain,  perhaps,  why  at  the  outset  we 
spoke  of  style.  One  hears  little  about  Shaks- 
pere's  style,  or  Scott's,  or  Shelley's.  Where  there 
are  matters  of  larger  interest — character,  dra- 
matic situations,  passion,  lofty  conceptions, 
abstract  truth — there  is  little  room  for  attention  to 
so  superficial  a  quality,  or  rather  to  a  quality  that 
has  some  such  superficial  aspects.  But  in  the 
work  of  less  creative  writers,  a  purely  literary  inter- 
est, if  it  be  aroused  at  all,  must  centre  chiefly  in 
this.  And  herein  lies  Macaulay's  significance  to 
the  literary  world  to-day. 

Upon   the   professional   writers   of   that   world, 

as  distinct  from  the  readers,  his  influence  has  been 

20.  influence  on  no  less  than  profound,  partly  for 

journalism.       eY{\^  t,ut  chiefly,   we  think   (Mr. 

Morley  notwithstanding),  for  good.  His  name 
was  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  our  sketch  in 
connection  with  journalism.  It  is  just  because 
the  literary  development  of  our  age  has  moved  so 
rapidly  along  this  line,  that  Macaulay's  influence 
has  been  so  far-reaching.  The  journalist  must 
have  an  active  pen.  He  cannot  indulge  in  medi- 
tation while  the  ink  dries.  He  cannot  stop  to 
arrange  and  rearrange  his  ideas,  to  study  the 
cadence  of  his  sentences,  to  seek  for  the  unique  or 
the  suggestive  word.  What  Macaulay  did  was  to 
furnish  the  model  of  just  such  a  style  as  would 
meet  this  need — ready,  easy,  rapid,  yet  never  loose 
or  obscure.     He  seems  to  have  found  his  way  by 


40  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

instinct  to  all  those  expedients  which  make  writing 
easy — short,  direct  sentences,  commonplace  words, 
constant  repetition  and  balance  of  form,  adapted 
quotations,  and  stock  phrases  from  the  Bible  or 
Prayer-Book  or  from  the  language  of  the  jjrofes- 
sions,  politics,  and  trade.  This  style  he  impressed 
upon  a  generation  of  journalists  that  was  ready  to 
receive  it  and  keenly  alive  to  its  value. 

The  word  journalist  is  scarcely  broad  enough  to 
cover  the  class  of  writers  here  meant.  For  the 
class  includes,  in  addition  to  the  great  "press 
tribe"  from  editor  to  reporter  and  reviewer,  every 
writer  of  popular  literature,  every  one  who  appeals 
to  a  miscellaneous  public,  who  undertakes  to 
make  himself  a  medium  between  special  intelli- 
gence and  general  intelligence.  And  there  are 
thousands  of  these  writers  to-day — in  editorial 
chairs,  on  magazine  staffs,  on  political,  educa- 
tional, and  scientific  commissions — who  are  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  employing  the  convenient 
instrument  which  Macaulay  did  so  much  toward 
perfecting  seventy-five  years  ago.  The  evidence 
is  on  every  hand.  One  listens  to  a  lecture  by  a 
scientist  who,  it  is  quite  possible,  never  read  a 
paragraph  of  Macaulay,  and  catches,  before  long, 
words  like  these:  "There  is  no  reversal  of 
nature's  processes.  The  world  has  come  from  a 
condition  of  things  essentially  different  from  the 
present.  It  is  moving  toward  a  condition  of  things 
sssentially  different  from  the  present."     Or  one 


INTRODUCTION  41 

turns  to  an  editorial  in  a  daily  paper  and  reads : 
"It  will  be  ever  thus  with  all  the  movements  in 
this  country  to  which  a  revolutionary  interpreta- 
tion can  be  attached.  The  mass  and  body  of  the 
people  of  the  United  States  are  a  level-headed, 
sober-minded  people.  They  are  an  upright  and  a 
solvent  people.  They  love  their  government. 
They  are  proud  of  their  government.  Its  credit  is 
dear  to  them.  Enlisted  in  its  cause,  party  lines 
sag  loose  upon  the  voters  or  disappear  altogether 
from  their  contemplation."  The  ear-marks  are 
very  plain  to  see. 

We  would  not  make  the  mistake  of  attributing 
too  many  and  too  large  effects  to  a  single  cause. 
Life  and  art  are  very  complex  matters  and  the 
agencies  at  work  are  quite  beyond  our  calculation. 
There  is  always  danger  of  exaggerating  the  impor- 
tance of  a  single  influence.  The  trend  of  things  is 
not  easily  disturbed — the  history  of  the  world  never 
yet  turned  upon  the  cast  of  a  die  or  the  length  of  a 
woman's  nose.  In  spite  of  Jeffrey's  testimony — and 
it  cannot  be  lightly  brushed  aside — we  are  not  ready 
to  give  Macaulay  the  whole  credit  for  inventing  this 
style.  Nor  do  we  believe  that  journalism  would  be 
materially  different  from  what  it  is  to-day,  even 
though  Macaulay  had  never  written  a  line.  But  it 
does  not  seem  too  much  to  admit  that  the  first 
vigorous  impulse  came  from  him  and  that  the 
manner  is  deservedly  associated  with  his  name. 

In  itself,  as  has  been  pointed  out,  it  is  not  a 


42  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

beautiful  thing.  It  is  a  thing  of  mannerisms,  and 
these  we  have  not  hesitated  to  call  vices.  From 
the  point  of  view  of  literature  they  are  vices T 
blemishes  on  the  face  of  true  art.  But  the  style 
is  useful  none  the  less.  The  ready  writer  is  not 
concerned  about  beauty,  he  does  not  profess  to  be 
an  artist.  He  has  intelligence  to  convey,  and  the 
simplest  and  clearest  medium  is  for  his  purpose  the 
best.  He  will  continue  to  use  this  serviceable 
medium  nor  trouble  himself  about  its  "unlovely 
staccato"  and  its  gaudy  tinsel.  Meanwhile  the 
literary  artist  may  pursue  his  way  in  search  of  a 
more  elusive  music  and  a  more  iridescent  beauty, 
satisfied  with  the  tithe  of  Macaulay's  popularity  if 
only  he  can  attain  to  some  measure  of  his  own  ideals. 
But  Macaulay  himself  should  be  remembered  for 
his  real  greatness.  The  facile  imitator  of  the 
31.  Real  Great-  tricks  of  his  pen  should  beware 
ness.  0f   t}ie    ingratitude    of    assuming 

that  these  were  the  measure  of  his  mind.  These 
vices  are  virtues  in  their  place,  but  they  are  not 
high  virtues,  and  they  are  not  the  virtues  that  made 
Macaulay  great.  His  greatness  lay  in  the  qualities 
hat  we  have  tried  to  insist  upon  from  the  first, 
([Utilities  that  are  quite  beyond  imitation,  the  power 
of  bringing  instantly  into  one  mental  focus  the  accu- 
mulations of  a  prodigious  memory,  and  the  range  of 
vision,  the  grasp  of  detail,  and  the  insight  into  men, 
measures,  and  events,  that  enabled  him  to  reduce 
to  beautiful  order  the  chaos  of  human  history. 


: 


CHRONOLOGY  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY 


1800.     Macaulay  born,    Oct.    25,    at    Rothley    Temple, 

Leicestershire. 
1818.     Entered   Trinity  College,  Cambridge.      (B.  A., 

1822;  M.  A.,  1825.) 

1823.  Began  contributing  to  Knight's  Quarterly  Maga- 

zine. 

1824.  Elected  Fellow  of  Trinity. 

1825.  Began  contributing  to  Edinburgh  Review. 

1826.  Called  to  the  Bar. 

1830.  Entered  Parliament. 

1831.  Speeches  on  Reform  Bill. 

1834.     Went  to  India  as  member  of  the  Supreme  Coun 
cil. 

1837.  Indian  Penal  Code. 

1838.  Returned  to  England.     Tour  in  Italy. 

1839.  Elected  to  Parliament  for  Edinburgh.    Secretary 

at  War. 

1842.  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome. 

1843.  Collected  edition  of  Essays. 

1848.     History  of  England,  vols.  i.   and  ii.     (Vols.  iii. 

and  iv.  1855;  vol.  v.  1861.) 
1852.     Failure  in  health. 
185T.     Made  Baron  Macaulay  of  Rothley. 
1859.     Died  Dec.  28.   (Interred  in  Westminster  Abbey. ) 
The  standard  edition   of  Macaulay's   works  is  that 
edited  by  his  sister,  Lady  Trevelyan,  in  eight  volumes, 
and  published  at  London,  1866 ;  reprinted  at  New  York, 
by  Harper  Bros.  The  authorized  biography  is  that  by  his 
nephew,  G.  O.  Trevelyan,  a  book  which  is  exceedingly 
interesting  and  which  takes  high  rank  among  English 

43 


44  MACAULAY  S   ESSAYS 

biographies.  J-  Cotter  Morison's  life  in  the  English 
Men  of  Letters  series  is  briefer,  is  both  biographical  and 
critical,  and  is  in  every  way  an  admirable  work.  There 
are  also  the  articles  in  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica,  by 
Mark  Pattison,  and  in  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen.  The  best  critical 
essays  are  those  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  in  Hours  in  a 
Library,  by  Mr.  John  Morley  in  Miscellanies,  and  by 
Walter  Bagehot  in  Literary  Studies. 


'      r 


MILTON 


Joayinis  Miltoni,  Angli,  de  Doctrind  Christiana  libri 
duo  posthumi.  A  treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine, 
compiled  from  the  Holy  Scriptures  alone.  By  John 
Milton,  translated  from  the  original  by  Charles  R. 
Sumner,  M.A.,  etc.,  etc.,  1825: 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1823,  Mr.  Lemon, 
deputy  keeper  of  the  state  papers,  in  the  course  of 
his  researches  among  the  presses  of  his  office,  met 
with  a   large    Latin    manuscript.     .With  it  were 

5  found  corrected  copies  of  the  foreign  despatches 
written  by  Milton  while  he  filled  the  office  of 
Secretary,  and  several  papers  relating  to  the  Popish 
Trials  and  the  Rye-house  Plot.  The  whole  was 
wrapped  up  in  an  envelope,  superscribed  To  Mr. 

io  Skinner,  Merchant.  On  examination  the  large 
manuscript  proved  to  be  the  long  lost  Essay  on 
the  Doctrines  of  Christianity,  which,  according 
to  Wood  and  Toland,  Milton  finished  after  the 
Restoration,  and  depc%tted  with  Cyriac  Skinner. 

is  Skinner,  it  is  well  known,  held  the  same  political 
opinions  with  his  illustrious%iend.  It  is  therefore 
probable,  as  Mr.  Lemon  conjectures,  that  he  may 
have  fallen  under  the  suspicions  of  the  government 

45 


46  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

during  that  persecution  of  the  Whigs  which  fol- 
lowed the  dissolution  of  the  Oxford  Parliament, 
and  that,  in  consequence  of  a  general  seizure  of 
his  papers,  this  work  may  have  been  brought  to 
the  office  in  which  it  has  been  found.  But  what-  5 
ever  the  adventures  of  the  manuscript  may  have 
been,  no  doubt  can  exist  that  it  is  a  genuine  relic 
of  the  great  poet. 

Mr.  Sumner,  who  was  commanded  by  His 
Majesty  to.  edit  and  translate  the  treatise,  has  10 
acquitted  himself  of  his  task  in  a  manner  honor- 
able to  his  talents  and  to  his  character.  His  ver- 
sion is  not,  indeed,  very  easy  or  elegant ;  but  it  is 
entitled  to  the  praise  of  clearness  and  fidelity. 
His  notes  abound  with  interesting  quotations,  and  15 
have  the  rare  merit  of  really  elucidating  the  text. 
The  preface  is  evidently  the  work  of  a  sensible 
and  candid  man,  firm  in  his  own  religious  opin- 
ions, and  tolerant  towards  those  of  others. 

The  book  itself  will  not  add  much  to  the  fame  20 
of  Milton.  It  is,  like  all  his  Latin  works,  well 
written,  though  not  exactly  in  the  style  of  the 
prize  essays  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  There  is 
no  elaborate  imitation  of  classical  antiquity,  no 
scrupulous  purity,  none  of  the  ceremonial  clean-  25 
ness  which  characterizes  the  diction  of  our  academ- 
ical Pharisees.  The  author  does  not  attempt  to 
polish  and  brighten  his  composition  into  the 
Ciceronian  gloss  and  brilliancy.  He  does  not,  in 
short,    sacrifice    sense     and    spirit     to    pedantic  30 


MILTON  47 

refinements.     The  nature  of  his  subject  compelled 
him  to  use  many  words 

"That  would  have  made  QuintiliaD  stare  and  gasp." 
.-But  he  writes  with  as  much  ease  and  freedom  as  if 
5  Latin  were  his  mother  tongue;  and,  where  he  is 
least  happy,  his  failure  seems  to  arise  from  the 
carelessness  of  a  native,  not  from  the  ignorance  of 
a  foreigner.  We  may  apply  to  him  what  Denham 
with  great  felicity  says  of  Cowley.     He  wears  the 

10  garb,  but  not  the  clothes,  of  the  ancients. 

Throughout    the   volume    are    discernible    the 
traces    of    a    powerful   and    independent    mind, 
emancipated  from  the  influence  of  authority,  and' 
devoted  to  the  search  of  truth.     Milton  professes 

15  to  form  his  system  from  the  Bible  alone;  and  his 
digest  of  scriptural  texts  is  certainly  among  the 
best  that  have  appeared.  But  he  is  not  always  so 
happy  in  his  inferences  as  in  his  citations. 

Some  of  the  heterodox  doctrines  which  he  avows 

20  seem  to  have  excited  considerable  amazement, 
particularly  his  Arianism,  and  his  theory  on  the 
subject  of  polygamy.  Yet  we  can  scarcely  conceive 
that  any  person  could  have  read  the  Paradise  Lost 
without  suspecting  him  of  the  former ;  nor  do  we 

25  think  that  any  reader,  acquainted  with  the  history 
of  his  life,  ought  to  be  much  startled  at  the  latter. 
The  opinions  which  he  has  expressed  respecting 
the  nature  of  the  Deity,  the  eternity  of  matter, 
and  the  observ^i^i  of   the    Sabbath,   might,  we 

30  think,  have  caused  more  just  surprise. 


48  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

But  we  will  not  go  into  the  discussion  of  these 
points.     The  book,  were  it  far  more  orthodox  or 
far  more  heretical  than  it  is,  would  not  much  edify 
or  corrupt  the  present   generation.     The  men  of 
our  time  are  not  to  be  converted  or  perverted  by    5 
■Quartos.     A  few  more   days,  and  this   essay  will 
follow  the  Defensio  Populi  to  the  dust  and  silence 
of  the  upper  shelf.     The  name  of  its  author,  and 
the  remarkable  circumstances  attending  its  publi- 
cation, will  secure  to  it  a  certain  degree  of  atten-   10 
tion.     For  a  month  or  two  it  will  occupy  a  few 
minutes  of  chat  in  every  drawing-room,  and  a  few 
columns  in  every  magazine;  and  it  will  then,  to 
borrow  the  elegant  language  of  the  playbills,  be 
withdrawn,  to   make   room   for   the   forthcoming  is 
novelties. 
*j>»*We  wish,  however,  to    avail   ourselves  of    the 
/y   interest,  transient  as  it  may  be,  which  this  work 
'/     has    excited.     The    dexterous     Capuchins    never 
choose  to  preach  on  the  life  and  miracles  of  a  saint  20 
till  they  have  awakened  the  devotional  feelings  of 
their  auditors  by  exhibiting  some  relic  of  him,  a 
thread  of  his  garment,  a  lock  of  his  hair,  or  a  drop 
of  his  blood.     On  the  same  principle,  we  intend  to 
take  advantage  of  the  late   interesting  discovery,   25 
and,  while  this  memorial  of  a  great  and  good  man 
is  still  in  the  hands  of  all,  to  say  something  of  his 
moral  and  intellectual  qualities.     Nor,  we  are  con- 
vinced, will  the  severest  of  our  readers  blame  us  if, 
on    an    occasion    like    the  present,  we  turn    for  a 


MILTON 


short   time  from  the  topics  of  the  day,  to  com-  &*^ 
memorate,  in  all  love  and  reverence,  the  genius  and 
virtues  of  (John  Milton,  the  poet,  the  statesman, 
the  philosopher,  the  glory  of  English  literature, 

5  the  champion  and  the  martyr  of  English  liberty}  '\s*^ 

It  is  by  his  poetry  that  Milton  is  best  known; 

and  it  is  of  his  poetry  that  we  wish  first  to  speak, 

By  the  general  suffrage  of  the  civilized  world,  his 

place  has  been  assigned  among  the  greatest  masters 

10  of  the  art.     His  detractors,  however,  though  out- 
voted, have  not  been  silenced.     There  are  many  *     '"". 
critics,  and  some  of  great  name,  who  contrive  in  V 
the  same  breath  to  extol  the  poems  and  to  decry 
the  poet.     The  works  they  acknowledge,  consid- 

15  ered  in  themselves,  may  be  classed  among  the 
noblest  productions  of  the  human  mind.  But 
they  will  not  allow  the  author  to  rank  with  those 
great  men  who,  born  in  the  infancy  of  civiliza- 
tion, supplied,  by  their  own  powers,  the  want  of 

20  instruction,  and,  though  destitute  of  models  them- 
selves, bequeathed  to  posterity  models  which  defy 
imitation.  Milton,  it  is  said,  inherited  what  his 
predecessors  created;  he  lived  in  an  enlightened 
age;    he  received  a  finished   education;    and  we 

25  must,  therefore,  if  we  would  form  a  just  estimate 
of  his  powers,  make  large  deductions  in  consider- 
ation of  these  advantages. 

We  venture  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  paradoxical    '  ^ 
as  the  remark  may  appear,  thauf  no  poet  has  ever  ^f-  & 

30  had  to    struggle  with   more  unfavorable    circum- 


<Sr~- 


*iM*tf^< 


50  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

stances  than  Milton.     He  doubted,  as  he  lias  him- 

5^  self  owned,  whether  he  had  not  been  born  "an  age 

too  late."     For  this  notion  Johnson  has  thought 


flu-* 


fit  to  make  him  the  butt  of  much  clumsy  ridicule.  " 
\x**'  The  poet,  we  believe,  understood  the  nature  of  his    5 
art  better  than  the  critic. ^He  knew  that  his  poet- 
ical genius  derived  no  advantage  from  the  civiliza- 
tion which  surrounded  him,  or  from  the  learning 
which  he  had  acquired ;  and  he  looked  back  with 
something  like  regret  to  the  ruder  age  of  simple  !io 
words  and  vivid  impressions. 

We  think  that,  as  civilization  advances,  j^oetry 
almost  necessarily  declines.     Therefore,  though  we 
fervently  admire  those  great  works  of  imagination 
which   have   appeared    in   dark  ages,    we    do   not   15 
admire  them  the  more  because  they  have  appeared 
in  dark  ages.     On  the  contrary,  we  hold  that  the    *• 
most  wonderful  and  splendid  proof  of  genius  is  a 
great  poein  produced  in  a  civilized  age.     We  can- 
not understand  why  those  who  believe  in  that  most  20 
orthodox  article  of  literary  faith,  that  the  earliest 
poets  are  generally  the  best,  should  wonder  at  the 
rule  as  if  it  were  the  exception.     Surely  the  uni- 
formity of  the  phenomenon  indicates  a  correspond- 
ing uniformity  in  the.  cause.  25  "^ 
The  fact  is,  that  common  observers  reason  from  ^. 
(^\j>t  the  progress  of  the  experimental  sciences  to  that  of 
?*/   ,  the  imitative  arts.   The  improvement  of  the  former'^  ^ 
f^j/Kj'  is  gradual  and  slow.     Ages  are  spent  in  collecting  !&' 
materials,  ages  more  in  separating  and  combining  so 


MILTON  51 

them.     Even   when   a  system   has  been   formed,  ***-t 
there   is   still   something   to   add,  to   alter,  or   to 
reject.     Every  generation  enjoys  the  use  of  a  vast    >*^~ 
hoard  bequeathed  to  it  by  antiquity,  and  transmits 

5  that    hoard,  augmented  by  fresh  acquisitions,    to 
future  ages.     In  these  pursuits,  therefore,  the  first    <z~?' 
speculators    lie    under   great    disadvantages,   and, 
even  when  they  fail,  are  entitled  to  praise. ''-Their 
pupils,  with  far  inferior  intellectual  powers,  speed- 

10  ily  surpass  them  in   actual    attainments.     Every  C^^ 
girl  who  has  read  Mrs.  Marcet's  little  dialogues  on 
Political  Economy  could  teach  Montague  or  Wal- 
pole  many  lessons  in  finance.     Any  intelligent  man  ^ 
may  now,  by  resolutely  applying  himself  for  a  few 

15  years  to  mathematics,  learn  more  than  the  great 
Xewton  knew  after  half  a  century  of  study  and 
meditation. 

>ut  it  is  not  thus  with  music,  with  painting,  or  c—^ 
with  sculpture.     Still  less  is  it  thus  with  poetry. 

20  The  progress  of  refinement  rarely  supplies  these 

arts   with   better   objects   of    imitation.     It   may  j,^ 
indeed  improve  the  instruments  which  are  neces-    f~^* 
sary  to  the  mechanical  operations  of  the  musician, 
the  sculptor,'  and  the  painter.     But  language,  the    o-~ 

25  machine  of  the  poet,  is  best  fitted  for  his  purpose 
in  its  rudest  state.  XationY,  like  individuals, 
first  perceive  and  then  abstract.  They  advance 
from  particular  images  to  general  terms.  Hence 
the  vocabulary  of  an  enlightened  society  is  philo- 

30  sophical,  that  of  a  half -civilized  people  is  poetical. 


52  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

This  change  in  the  language  of  men  is  partly  the 
cause  and  partly  the  effect  of  a  corresponding 
change  in  the  nature  of  their  intellectual  oper- 
ations, of  a  change  by  which  science  gains  and 
poetry  loses.  Generalization  is  necessary  to  the  e 
advancement  of  knowledge;  but  particularity  is 
indispensable  to  the  creations  of  the  imagination. 
In  proportion  as  men  know  more  and  think  more, 
they  look  less  at  individuals  and  more  at  classes. 
They  therefore  make  better  theories  and  worse  10 
poems.  They  give  us  vague  phrases  instead  of 
images,  and  personified  qualities  instead  of  men. 
They  may  be  better  able  to  analyze  human  nature 
than  their  predecessors.  But  analysis  is  not  the 
business  of  the  poet.  His  office  is  to  portray,  not  15 
to  dissect.  He  may  believe  in  a  moral  sense,  like 
Shaftesbury ;  he  may  refer  all  human  actions  to 
self-interest,  like  Helvetius;  or  he  may  never 
think  about  the  matter  at  all.  His  creed  on  such 
subjects  will  no  more  influence  his  poetry,  properly  20 
so  called,  than  the  notions  which  a  painter  may 
have  conceived  respecting  the  lachrymal  glands,  or 
the  circulation  of  the  blood,  will  affect  the  tears  of 
his  Niobe,  or  the  blushes  of  his  Aurora.  If 
Shakespeare  had  written  a  book  on  the  motives  of  25 
human  actions,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  it 
would  have  been  a  good  one.  It  is  extremely 
improbable  that  it  would  have  contained  half  so 
much  able  reasoning  on  the  subject  as  is  to  bo 
found   in    the    Fable   of    the   Bees.     But    could  » 


*v-v\-c 


^t^kry^^^/^t^^J    <x^»  *y 


MILTON  53 

Mandeville  have  created  an^Tagg^1  Well  as  he 
knew  how  to  resolve  characters  into  their  elements, 
would  he  have  been  able  to  combine  those  elements 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  up  a  man,  a  real, 

5  living,  individual  man? 

Perhaps  no  person  can  be  a  poet,  or  can  even     "^ 
enjoy  poetry,   without  a    certain  unsoundness  of 
mind,  if   anything  which  gives  so  much  pleasure 
ought   to  be  called  unsoundness.     By  poetry  we 

io  mean  not  all    writing  in  verse,  nor  even  all  good     / 
writing  in  verse.     Our  definition  excludes  many 
metrical   compositions  which,  on    other  grounds, 
deserve  the  highest  praise.     By  poetry  we  mean 
the  art  of    employing    words  in    such  a  manner 

is  as  to  produce  an  illusion  on  the  imagination,  the 
art  of  doing  by  means  of  words  what  the  painter 
does  by  means  of  colors.  Thus  the  greatest  of 
poets  has  described  it,  in  lines  universally  admired 
for  the  vigor  and  felicity  of  their  diction,  and  still 

20  more  valuable  on  account  of  the  just  notion  which 
they  convey  of  the  art  in  which  he  excelled : — 

;<As  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
25  A  local  habitation  and  a  name. " 

These  are  the  fruits  of  the  "fine  frenzy"  which 
he  ascribes  to  the  poet, — a  fine  frenzy,  doubtless, 
but  still  a  frenzy.     Truth,  indeed,  is  essential  to     2 
poetry;    but   it   is   the   truth   of   madness.     The 


54  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

reasonings  are  just;  but  the    premises   are   false. 
After  the  first  suppositious  have  been  made,  every- 
thing ought  to  be  consistent;  but  those  first  sup- 
positions require  a  degree  of  credulity  which  almost 
amounts  to  a  partial  and  temporary  derangement    5 
of  the  intellect.     Hence  of  all  people  children  are 
the  most  imaginative.     They  abandon  themselves 
without  reserve    to  every  illusion.     Every  image 
which  is  strongly  presented  to  their  mental  eye 
produces  on  them  the  effect  of  reality.     No  man,   10 
whatever  his  sensibility  may  be,  is  ever  affected  by 
Hamlet  or  Lear,  as  a  little  girl  is  affected  by  the 
story  of  poor  Red  Riding-hood.    She  knows  that  it 
is  all  false,  that  wolves  cannot  speak,  that  there  are 
no  wolves  in  England.     Yet  in  spite  of  her  knowl-   15 
edge  she  believes ;  she  weeps ;   she  trembles ;   she 
dares  not  go  into  a  dark  room  lest  she  should  feel 
the  teeth  of  the  monster  at  her  throat.     Such  is 
the  despotism  of  the   imagination  over    unculti-    •.. 
vated  minds.  jfl^vA^o 

I  bin  a  rude  state  of  society  men  are  children  with 
a  greater  variety  of  ideas.  It  is  therefore  in  such 
a  state  of  society  that  we  may  expect  to  find  the 
poetical  temperament  in  its  highest  perfection.  In 
an  enlightened  age  there  will  be  much  intelligence,  25 
much  science,  much  philosophy,  abundance  of  just 
classification  and  subtle  analysis,  abundance  of  wit 
and  eloquence,  abundance  of  verses,  and  even  of 
good  ones;  but  little  poetry.  Men  will  judge  and 
compare;    but  they  will    not   create.     They   will   bo 


1 


MILTON  55 

talk  about  the  old  poets,  and  comment  on  them, 
and  to  a  certain  degree  enjoy  them.     But  they  will 
scarcely   be    able   to    conceive    the    effect   which 
poetry    produced    on    their   ruder    ancestors,    the 
5  agony,  the  ecstasy,  the  plenitude  of  belief.     The 
Greek  Ehapsodists,  according  to  Plato,  could  scarce 
recite   Homer  without    falling   into    convulsions. 
The  Mohawk  hardly  feels  the  scalping-knife  while 
he  shouts  his  death-song.     The  power  which  the 
10  ancient   bards  of   "Wales   and    Germany   exercised 
over  then'  auditors  seems  to  modern  readers  almost 
miraculous.     Such  feelings  are  very  rare  in  a  civil- 
ized community,  and  most  rare  among  those  who 
participate    most     in     its     improvements.     They 
15  linger  longest  among  the  peasantry. 
v  Poetry  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the     '    * 

mind,  as  a  magic  lantern  produces  an  illusion  on 
the  eye  of  the  body.     And,  as  the  magic  lantern 
j^3    -acts  best  in  a  dark  room,  poetry  effects  its  purpose 
/*o  most  completely  in  a  dark  age.     As  the  light  of 
-<J        knowledge  breaks  in  upon  its  exhibitions,  as  the  - 
^    outlines  of  certainty  become  more  and  more  defi- 
;  yy     nite,  and  the  shades  of  probability  more  and  more 
.  distinct,    the  hues   and   lineaments  of  the  phan- 
fl£  toms  which   the  poet  calls  up    grow  fainter  and 
fainter.       We  cannot  unite  the  incompatible  ad- 
vantages of   reality  and  deception,   the  clear  dis- 
'  cernment  of  truth  and  the  exquisite  enjoyment, of 
fiction. 
30       He  who,  in  an  enlightened  and  literary  society. 


56  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

aspires  to  be  a  great  poet,  must  first  become  a 
little  child.  He  must  take  to  pieces  the  whole 
web  of  his  mind.  He  must  unlearn  much  of  that 
knowledge  which  has  perhaps  constituted  hitherto 
his  chief  title  to  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  5 
be  a  hindrance  to  him.  His  difficulties  will  be 
proportioned  to  his  proficiency  in  the  pursuits 
which  are  fashionable  among  his  contemporaries; 
and  that  proficiency  will  in  general  be  proportioned 
to  the  vigor  and  activity  of  his  mind.  And  it  is  10 
well  if,  after  all  his  sacrifices  and  exertions,  his 
works  do  not  resemble  a  lisping  man  or  a  modern 
ruin.  We  have  seen  in  our  own  time  great 
talents,  intense  labor,  and  long  meditation,  em- 
ployed in  this  struggle  against  the  spirit  of  15 
the  age,  and  employed,  we  will  not  say  absolutely 
in  vain,  but  with  dubious  success  and  feeble 
applause. 

If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has  ever 
triumphed  over  greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  20 
He  received  a  learned  education :  he  was  a  pro- 
found and  elegant  classical  scholar ;  he  had  studied 
all  the  mysteries  of  Rabbinical  literature;  he  was 
intimately  acquainted  with  every  language  of  mod- 
ern Europe  from  which  either  pleasure  or  infor-  25 
mation  was  then  to  be  derived.  He  was  perhaps 
the  only  great  poet  of  later  times  who  has  been 
distinguished  by  the  excellence  of  his  Latin  verse. 
The  genius  of  Petrarch  was  scarcely  of  the  first 
order;  and   his   poems    in   the  ancient   language,   30 


MILTON  57 

though  much  praised  by  those  who  have  never  read 
them,  are  wretched  compositions.  Cowley,  with 
all  his  admirable  wit  and  ingenuity,  had  little 
imagination;  nor  indeed  do  we  think  his  classical 

5  diction  comparable  to  that  of  Milton.  The  author- 
ity of  Johnson  is  against  us  on  this  point.  But 
Johnson  had  studied  the  bad  writers  of  the  middle 
ages  till  he  had  become  utterly  insensible  to  the 
Augustan   elegance,    and   was    as    ill  qualified   to 

10  judge   between   two    Latin   styles    as    a    habitual 
drunkard  to  set  up  for  a  wine-taster. 
,  ^  Versification  in  a  dead  language  is  an  exotic,  a 

r  far-fetched,  costly,  sickly  imitation  of  that  which 
elsewhere  may  be  found  in  healthful  and  sponta- 

15  neous  perfection.  The  soils  on  which  this  rarity 
flourishes  are  in  general  as  ill-suited  to  the  pro- 
duction of  vigorous  native  poetry  as  the  flower- 
pots of  a  hot-house  to  the  growth  of  oaks.  That 
the   author   of   the    Paradise    Lost    should    have 

20  written  the  Epistle  to  Manso  was  truly  wonderful. 

Xever  before   were   such  marked    originality  and 

such  exquisite  mimicry  found  together.   Indeed,  in 

"all  the  Latin  poems  of  Milton  the  artificial  manner 

indispensable  to  such  works  is  admirably  preserved, 

25  while,  at  the  same  time,  his  genius  gives  to  them  a 
peculiar  charm,  an  air  of  nobleness  and  freedom, 
which  distinguishes  them  from  all  other  writings  of 
the  same  class.  They  remind  us  of  the  amuse- 
ments of  those  angelic  warriors  who  composed  the 

30  cohort  of  Gabriel: —      * 


/ 


58  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

"About  him  exercised  heroic  games 
The  unarmed  youth  of  heaven.      But  o'er  their  heads 
Celestial  armory,  shield,  helm,  and  spear, 
Hung  high,  with  diamond  flaming  and  with  gold." 

We  cannot  look  upon  the  sportive  exercises  for  5 
which  the  genius  of  Milton  imgirds  itself,  without 
catching  a  glimpse  of  the  gorgeous  and  terrible 
panoply  which  it  is  accustomed  to  wear.  The 
strength  of  his  imagination  triumphed  over  every 
obstacle.  So  intense  and  ardent  was  the  fire  of  10 
his  mind,  that  it  not  only  was  not  suffocated 
beneath  the  weight  of  fuel,  but  penetrated  the 
whole  superincumbent  mass  with  its  own  heat  and 
radiance. 

|    It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  anything  like    15 
a  complete  examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton. 
The  public  has  long  been  agreed  as  to  the  merit 
of  the  most  remarkable  passages,  the  incomparable 
harmony  of   the  numbers,  and  the  excellence  of 
that  style  which  no  rival  has  been  able  to  equal  and  20 
no   parodist  to  degrade,  which  displa}Ts  in  their 
highest   perfection   the   idiomatic   powers  of    the 
English  tongue,  and  to  which  every  ancient  and 
every  modern  language  has  contributed  something 
of  grace,  of  energy,  or  of  music.     In  the  vast  field   25 
of  criticism  on  which  we  are  entering,  innumerable 
reapers  have  already  put  their  sickles.     Yet   the 
harvest  is  so  abundant  that  the  negligent  search  of 
a  straggling  gleaner  may  beo^ewarded  with  a  sheaf. 


jejei 

iBeri 


The  most  striking  charafieristic  of  the  poetry  of  30 


MILTON  59 

Milton  is  the  extreme  remoteness  of  the  associ- 
ations by  means  of  which  it  acts  on  the  reader. 
^tts  effect  is  produced,  not  so  much  by  what  it 
expresses,  as  by  what  it  suggests;  not  so  much  by 

5  the  ideas  which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by  other 
ideas  which  are  connected  with  themTl  He  electri- 
fies the  mind  through  conductors.  The  most 
*  unimaginative  man  must  understand  the  Iliad. 
Homer  gives  him  no  choice,  and  requires  from  him 

ic  no  exertion,  but  takes  the  wdiole  upon  himself,  and 
sets  the  images  in  so  clear  a  light  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  be  blind  to  them.  The  wrorks  of  Milton 
cannot  be  comprehended  or  enjoyed  unless  the 
mind  of  the  reader    cooperate   writh  that  of  the 

io  writer.  ^He  does  not  paint  a  finished  picture,  or 
play  for  a  mere  passive  listener.  He  sketches,  and 
leaves  others  to  fill  up  the  outline.  He  strikes  the 
key-note,  and  expects  his  hearer  to  make  out  the 
melody?) 

20  We  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry. 
The  expression  in  general  means  nothing;  but, 
applied  to  the  writings  of  Milton,  it  is  most  appro- 
priate. His  poetry  acts  like  an  incantation.  Its 
merit  lies  less  in  its  obvious  meaning  than  in  its 

26  occult  power.  There  would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to 
be  no  more  in  his  words  than  in  other  words.  But 
they  are  words  of  enchantment.  No  sooner  are 
they  pronounced,  than  the  past  is  present  and  the 
distant  near.     New  forms  of  beauty  start  at  once 

30  into  existence,   and  all    the   burial-places   of   the 


60  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

memory  give  up  their  dead.     Change  the  structure 
of    the    sentence,    substitute    one    synonym    for 
another,  and  the  whole  effect  is  destroyed.     The " 
spell  loses  its  power ;  and  he  who  should  then  hope 
to   conjure  with  it  would  find  himself  as   much    5 
mistaken  as  Cassim  in  the  Arabian  tale,  when  he 
stood  crying,  "Open  Wheat,"  "Open  Barley,"  to 
the   door   which   obeyed   no    sound    but    "Open 
Sesame."     The  miserable  failure  of  Dry  den  in  his 
attempt  to  translate  into    his  own  diction   some  10 
parts  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  is  a  remarkable  instance 
of  this. 

In  support  of  these  observations  we  may  remark, 
that  scarcely  any  passages  in  the  poems  of  Milton 
are  more  generally  known,  or  more  frequently  15 
repeated,  than  those  which  are  little  more  than 
muster-rolls  of  names.  They  are  not  always  more 
appropriate  or  more  melodious  than  other  names. 
But  they  are  charmed  names.  Every  one  of  them  is 
the  first  link  in  a  long  chain  of  associated  ideas.  20 
Like  the  dwelling-place  of  our  infancy  revisited  in 
manhood,  like  the  song  of  our  country  heard  in  a 
strange  land,  they  produce  upon  us  an  effect 
wholly  independent  of  their  intrinsic  value.  One 
transports  us  back  to  a  remote  period  of  history.  25 
Another  places  us  among  the  novel  scenes  and 
manners  of  a  distant  region.  A  third  evokes  all 
the  dear  classical  recollections  of  childhood,  the 
school-room,  the  dog-eared  Virgil,  the  holiday,  and 
the  prize.     A  fourth  brings  before  us  the  splendid  30 


MILTON  61 

phantoms  of  chivalrous  romance,  the  trophied  lists, 
the  embroidered  housings,  the  quaint  devices,  the 
haunted  forests,  the  enchanted  gardens,  the 
achievements    of    enamoured    knights,    and    the 

5  smiles  of  rescued  princesses. 

"  In  none  of  the  works  of  Milton  is  his  peculiar 
manner  more  happily  displayed  than  in  the  Allegro 
and  the  Penseroso.  It  is  imnossible  to  conceive 
that  the  mechanism  of  language  can  be  brought  to 

10  a  more  exquisite  degree  of  perfection.  These 
poems  differ  from  others  as  atar  of  roses  differs 
from  ordinary  rose-water,  the  close-packed  essence 
from  the  thin,  diluted  mixture.  They  are  indeed 
not  so  much  poems  as  collections  of  hints,  from 

is  each  of  which  the  reader  is  to  make  out  a  poem 
for  himself.  Every  epithet  is  a  text  for  a  stanza. 
•*•  The  Comus  and  the  Samson  Agonistes  are  works 
which,  though  of  very  different  merit,  offer  some 
marked    points   of    resemblance.     Both  are  lyric 

20  poems  in  the  form  of  plays.  There  are  perhaps  no 
two  kinds  of  composition  so  essentially  dissimilar 
as  the  drama  and  the  ode.  The  business  of  the 
dramatist  is  to  keep  himself  out  of  sight,  and  to 
let  nothing  appear  but  his  characters.     As  soon  as 

25  he  attracts  notice  to  his  personal  feelings,  the  illu- 
sion is  broken.  The  effect  is  as  unpleasant  as  that 
which  is  produced  on  the  stage  by  the  voice  of 
a  prompter  or  the  entrance  of  a  scene-shifter. 
Hence  it  was  that  the  tragedies  of  Byron  were  his 

30  least    successful    performances.     They    resemble 


42  JTACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

those  pasteboard  pictures  invented  by  the  friend  of 
children,  Mr.  Newbery,  in  which  a  single  movable 
head  goes  round  twenty  different  bodies,  so  that 
the  same  face  looks  out  upon  us,  successively, 
from  the  uniform  of  a  hussar,  the  furs  of  a  judge,  5 
and  the  rags  of  a  beggar.  In  all  the  characters, 
patriots  and  tyrants,  haters  and  lovers,  the  frown 
and  sneer  of  Harold  were  discernible  in  an  instant. 
But  this  species  of  egotism,  though  fatal  to  the 
drama,  is  the  inspiration  of  the  ode.  It  is  the  10 
part  of  the  lyric  poet  to  abandon  himself,  without 
reserve,  to  his  own  emotions. 

Between  these  hostile  elements  many  great  men 
have  endeavored  to  effect  an  amalgamation,  but 
never  with  complete  success.  The  Greek  Drama,  is 
on  the  model  of  which  the  Samson  was  written, 
sprang  from  the  Ode.  The  dialogue  was  ingrafted 
on  the  chorus,  and  naturally  partook  of  its  char- 
acter. The  genius  of  the  greatest  of  the  Athenian 
dramatists  cooperated  with  the  circumstances  20 
under  which  tragedy  made  its  first  appearance. 
^Eschylus  was,  head  and  heart,  a  lyric  poet.  In 
his  time  the  Greeks  had  far  more  intercourse  with 
the  East  than  in  the  days  of  Homer ;  and  they  had 
not  yet  acquired  that  immense  superiority  in  war,  25 
in  science,  and  in  the  arts,  which,  in  the  follow- 
ing generation,  led  them  to  treat  the  Asiatics  with 
contempt.  From  the  narrative  of  Herodotus  it 
should  seem  that  they  still  looked  up,  with  the 
veneration  of  disciples,  to  Egypt  and  Assyria.     At  30 


MILTON  G3 

this  period,  accordingly,  it  was  natural  that  the 
literature  of  Greece  should  be  tinctured  with  the 
Oriental  style.  And  that  style,  we  think,  is  dis- 
cernible in  the  works  of  Pindar  and  iEschylus. 
5  The  latter  often  reminds  us  of  the  Hebrew  writers. 
The  book  of  Job,  indeed,  in  conduct  and  diction, 
bears  a  considerable  resemblance  to  some  of  his 
dramas.  Considered  as  plays,  his  works  are 
absurd;  considered  as  choruses,  they  are  above  all 

10  praise.  If,  for  instance,  we  examine  the  address 
of  Clytemnestra  to  Agamemnon  on  his  return,  or 
the  description  of  the  seven  Argive  chiefs,  by  the 
principles  of  dramatic  writing,  we  shall  instantly 
condemn  them  as  monstrous.      But  if  we  forget  the 

15  characters,  and  think  only  of  the  poetry,  we  shall 
admit  that  it  has  never  been  surpassed  in  energy 
and  magnificence.  Sophocles  made  the  Greek 
drama  as  dramatic  as  was  consistent  with  its 
original  form.     His  portraits  of  men  have  a  sort  of 

20  similarity ;  but  it  is  the  similarity  not  of  a  paint- 
ing, but  of  a  bas-relief.  It  suggests  a  resem- 
blance; but  it  does  not  produce  an  illusion. 
Euripides  attempted  to  carry  the  reform  further. 
But  it  was  a  task  far  beyond  his  powers,  perhaps 

25  beyond  any  powers.  Instead  of  correcting  what 
was  bad,  he  destroyed  what  was  excellent.  He 
substituted  crutches  for  stilts,  bad  sermons  for 
good  odes. 

Milton,   it  is   well   known,   admired    Euripides 

30  highly;  much  more  highly  than,  in  our  opinion, 


H4  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

Euripides  deserved.  Indeed,  the  caresses  which' 
this  partiality  leads  our  countryman  to  bestow  on 
"sad  Electra's  poet,"  sometimes  remind  us  of  the 
beautiful  Queen  of  Fairyland  kissing  the  long  ears 
of  Bottom.  At  all  events,  there  can  be  no  doubt  5 
that  this  veneration  for  the  Athenian,  whether 
just  or  not,  was  injurious  to  the  Samson  Agonistes. 
Had  Milton  taken  /Eschylus  for  his  model,  he 
would  have  given  himself  up  to  the  lyric  inspir- 
ation, and  poured  out  profusely  all  the  treasures  of  10 
his  mind,  without  bestowing  a  thought  on  those 
dramatic  proprieties  which  the  nature  of  the  Work 
rendered  it  impossible  to  preserve.  In  the  attempt 
to  reconcile  things  in  their  own  nature  inconsist- 
ent, he  has  failed,  as  every  one  else  must  have  is 
failed.  We  cannot  identify  ourselves  with  the 
characters,  as  in  a  good  play.  We  cannot  identify 
ourselves  with  the  poet,  as  in  a  good  ode.  The 
conflicting  ingredients,  like  an  acid  and  an  alkali 
mixed,  neutralize  each  other.  We  are  by  no  means  20 
insensible  to  the  merits  of  this  celebrated  piece,  to 
the  severe  dignity  of  the  style,  the  graceful  and 
pathetic  solemnity  of  the  opening  speech,  or  the 
wild  and  barbaric  melody  which  gives  so  striking 
an  effect  to  the  choral  passages.  But  we  think  it,  as 
we  confess,  the  least  successful  effort  of  the 
genius  of  Milton. 

The  Comus  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the 
Italian  Masque,  as  the  Samson  is  framed  on  the 
model  of  the  Greek  Tragedy.     It  is  certainly  the  so 


MILTON  65 


noblest  performance  of  the   kind  which   exists  in 
any  language.     It  is  as  far  superior  to  the  Faith- 
ful Shepherdess,  as  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  is  fc 
the  Aminta  or    the  Aminta    to  the  Pastor  Fido. 

5  It  was  well  for  Milton  that  he  had  here  no 
Euripides  to  mislead  him.  He  understood  and 
loved  the  literature  of  modern  Italy.  But 
he  did  not  feel  for  it  the  same  veneration  which 
he     entertained    for     the    remains    of    Athenian 

jo  and  Roman  poetry,  consecrated  by  so  many  lofty 
and  endearing  recollections.  The  faults,  more- 
over, of  his  Italian  predecessors  were  of  a  kind  to 
which  his  mind  had  a  deadly  antipathy.  He  could 
stoop  to  a  plain  style,  sometimes  even  to  a  bald 

is  style;  but  false  brilliancy  wras  his  utter  aversion. 
His  Muse  had  no  objection  to  a  russet  attire ;  but 
she  turned  with  disgust  from  the  finery  of  Guarini, 
act  tawdry  and  as  paltry  as  the  rags  of  a  chimney- 
sweeper   on    May-day.     Whatever  ornaments   she 

20  wears  are  of  massive  gold,  not  only  dazzling  to  the 

sight,  but  capable  of  standing  the  severest  test  of 

the  crucible. 

■}-*-      Milton  attended  in  the  Comus  to  the  distinction 

which  he  afterward?  neglected  in  the  Samson.     He 

25  made  his  Masque  what  it  ought  to  be,  essentially 
lyrical,  and  dramatic  only  in  semblance.  He  has 
not  attempted  a  fruitless  struggle  against  a  defect 
inherent  in  the  nature  of  that  species  of  compo- 
sition; and  he  has  therefore  succeeded,  wherever 

30  success       3  not  impossible.     The  speeches  must  be 


66  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

read  as  majestic  soliloquies ;  and  he  who  so  reads 
them  will  be  enraptured  with  fheir  eloquence,  their 
sublimity,  and  their  music.  The  interruptions 
of  the  dialogue,  however,  impose  a  constraint 
upon  the  writer,  and  break  the  illusion  of  the  5 
reader.  The  finest  passages  are  those  which  are 
lyric  in  form  as  well  as  in  spirit.  "I  should  much 
commend,"  says  the  excellent  Sir  Henry  AVotton 
in  a  letter  to  Milton,  "the  tragical  part,  if  the 
lyrical  did  hot  ravish  me  with  a  certain  Dorique  10 
delicacy  in  your  songs  and  odes,  whereunto,  I  must 
plainly  confess  to  you,  I  have  seen  yet  nothing 
parallel  in  our  language."  The  criticism  was 
just.  It  is  when  Milton  escapes  from  the  shackles 
of  the  dialogue,  when  he  is  discharged  from  the  is 
labor  of  uniting  two  incongruous  styles,  when  he  is 
ac  liberty  to  indulge  his  choral  raptures  without 
reserve,  that  he  rises  even  above  himself.  Then, 
like  his  own  good  Genius  bursting  from  the  earthly 
form  and  weeds  of  Thyrsis,  he  stands  forth  in  20 
celestial  freedom  and  beauty;  he  seems  to  cry 
exultingly, 

"Now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run," 

to  skim  the  earth,  to  soar   above  the   clouds,  to  25 
bat  be  in  the  Elysian  dew  of  ihe  rainbow,  and  to 
inhale  the  balmy  smells  of  nard  and  cassia,  which 
ihe  musky  wings  of  the  zephyr  scatter  through  t; 
eedared  alleys  of  the  Hesperides- 


MILTON  61 

There  are  several  of  the  minor  poems  of  Milton 
on  which  we  would  willingly  make  a  few  remarks. 
Still  more  willingly  would  we  enter  into  a  detailed 
examination  of  that  admirable  poem,  the  Paradise 

5  Regained,  which,  strangely  enough,  is  scarcely  ever 
mentioned  except  as  an  instance  of  the  blindness 
of  the  parental  affection  which  men  of  letters  bear 
towards  the  offspring  of  their  intellects.  That 
Milton  was  mistaken  in  preferring  this  work,  excel  - 

10  lent  as  it   is,  to  the    Paradise   Lost,   we  readily 
admit.     But  we  are  sure  that  the-  superiority  of  /\ 
the    Paradise   Lost    to  the  Paradise   Regained   is 
not    more    decided    than    the    superiority  of   the 
Paradise  Regained  to  every  poem  which  has  since 

is  made  its    appearance.      Our  limits,   however,  pre- 
vent us  from  discussing  the  point  at  length.     We 
hasten  on  to  that  extraordinary  production  which 
the  general  suffrage  of  critics  has  placed  in  the 
highest  class  of  human  compositions. 
•so    [The  only  poem  of  modern  times  wThich  can  bo 
/       ^T^mpared  with    the  Paradise   Lost  is  the  Divine 
Comedv^    The  subject  of  Milton,  in  some  points, 
resembled  that  of  Dante;  but  he  has  treated  it  in 
Y^       a  widely  different  manner.     We  cannot,  we  think, 

25  better  illustrate  our  opinion  respecting  our  own 
great   poet,    than   by   contrasting    him   with   the 
father  of  Tuscan  literature. 
>    ij-f  *{*  The  poetry  of  Milton  differs  from  that  of  Dante     / 
»^s  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt  differed  from    the  * 

3M  picture-writing    of    Mexico.     The   images   which 


MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

Dante  employs  speak  for  themselves;  they  stand 
.  simply  for  what  they  are.     Those  of  Milton  have  a 
signification  which  is  often  discernible  only  to  the 
initiated.     Their  value  depends  less  on  what  they 
X  directly  represent  than  on  what  they  remotely  sug-    a 
gest.     However  strange,  however   grotesque,  may 
be  the    appearance  which    Dante   undertakes    to 
describe,  he  never  shrinks  from  describing  it.     He 
gives  us  the  shape,  the  color,  the  sound,  the  smell, 
the  taste;  he  counts  the  numbers;  he  measures  the   10 
size.     His  similes  are  the  illustrations  of  a  travel- 
ler.    Unlike  those  of  other  poets,  and  especially  of 
Milton,  they  are  introduced  in  a  plain,  business- 
like manner ;  not  for  the  sake  of  any  beauty  in  the 
objects  from  which    they  are  drawn;  not  for  the   is 
sake  of  any  ornament  which  they  may  impart  to 
the  poem;  but  simply  in  order  to  make  the  mean- 
ing of  the  writer  as  clear  to  the  reader  as  it  is  to 
himself.     The  ruins  of    the  precipice  which   led 
from  the  sixth  to  the  seventh  circle  of  hell  were  so 
like  those  of  the  rock  which  fell  into  the  Adige  on 
the  south  of  Trent.     The  cataract  of  Phlegetlnm 
was  like  that  of  Aqua  Cheta  at  the  monastery  of 
St.  Benedict.     The  place  where  the  heretics  were 
confined   in   burning   tombs    resembled    the    vast   m 
emetery  of  Aries. 
Now  let  us  compare  with  the  exact  details  of 
Dante  the  dim  intimations   of   Milton.     We  will 
cite  a  few  examples.   -The  English  poet  has  never 
thought  of  taking  the  measure  of  Satan.     Wo  gives 


MILTON  69 

us  merely  a  vague  idea  of  vast  bulk.  In  one  pas- 
sage the  fiend  lies  stretched  out,  huge  in  length 
floating  many  a  rood,  equal  in  size  to  the  earth- 
born  enemies  of  Jove,  or  to  the  sea-monster  which 
6  the  mariner  mistakes  for  an  island.  When  he 
addresses  himself  to  battle  against  the  guardian 
angels,  he  stands  like  Teneriffe  or  Atlas :  his 
stature  reaches  the  sky.  Contrast  with  these  de- 
scriptions the  lines  in  which  Dante  has  described 

10  the  gigantic  spectre  of  Nimrod.  "His  face  seemed 
to  me  as  long  and  as  broad  as  the  ball  of  St~ 
Peter's  at  Eome;  and  his  other  limbs  were  in  pro- 
portion; so  that  the  bank,  which  concealed  him; 
from  the  waist  downwards,  nevertheless  showed  so 

15  much  of  him,  that  three  tall  Germans  would  in 
vain  have  attempted  to  reach  to  his  hair."  We 
are  sensible  that  we  do  no  justice  to  the  admirable 
style  of  the  Florentine  poet.  But  Mr.  Cary's- 
translation  is  not  at  hand;  and  our  version,  how- 

20  ever  rude,  is  sufficient  to  illustrate  our  meaning. 

Once   more,    compare    the   lazar-house    in    the 

eleventh  book  of  the  Paradise  Lost  with  the  last 

ward  of  Malebolge  in  Dante.     Milton  avoids  the 

loathsome  details,  and  takes  refnge  in  indistinct 

25  but  solemn  and  tremendous  imagery:  Despair 
hurrying  from  couch  to  couch  to  mock  the 
wretches  with  his  attendance;  Death  shaking  his 
dart  over  them,  but,  in  spite  of  supplications r 
delaying  to  strike.     What  says    Dante?     "There 

so  was  such  a  moan  there  as  there  would  be  if  all  fche 


5 


MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

sick  who,  between  July  and  September,  are  in  the 
hospitals  of  Yaldichiana,  and  of  the  Tuscan 
swamps,  and  of  Sardinia,  were  in  one  pit  together; 
and  such  a  stench  was  issuing  forth  as  is  wont  to 
issue  from  decayed  limbs."  5 

JL  We  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  the  invidious 
office  of  settling  precedency  between  two  such 
writers.  Each  in  his  own  department  is  incom- 
parable; and  each,  we  may  remark,  has  wisely,  or 
fortunately,  taken  a  subject  adapted  to  exhibit  his  10 
peculiar  talent  to  the  greatest  advantage.  The 
Divine  Comedy  is  a  personal  narrative.  [Dante  is 
the  eye-witness  and  ear-witness  of  that  which  he 
relates^}  He  is  the  very  man  who  has  heard  the 
tormented  spirits  crying  out  for  the  second  death ;  15 
who  has  read  the  dusky  characters  on  the  portal 
within  which  there  is  no  hope;  who  has  hidden 
his  face  from  the  terrors  of  the  Gorgon ;  who  has 
tied  from  the  hooks  and  the  seething  pitch  of 
Barbariccia  and  Draghignazzo.  His  own  hands  20 
^rr;  have  grasped  the  shaggy  sides  of  Lucifer.  His 
^3*,_^own  feet  have  climbed  the  mountain  of  expi- 
ation. His  own  brow  has  been  marked  by  the 
purifying  angel.  The  reader  would  throw  aside 
such  a  tale  in  incredulous  disgust,  unless  it  were  25 
told  with  the  strongest  air  of  veracity,  with  a 
sobriety  even  in  its  horrors,  with  the  greatest  pre- 
cision and  multiplicity  in  its  details.  The  narra- 
tive of  Milton  in  this  respect  differs  from  that  of 
Dante,  as    the  adventures   of   Amadis  differ  from   so 


MILTON  71 

those  of  Gulliver.  The  author  of  Amadis  would 
have  made  his  book  ridiculous  if  he  had  intro- 
duced those  minute  particulars  which  give  such  a 
charm  to  the  work  of  Swift:  the  nautical  observa- 
5  tions,  the  affected  delicacy  about  names,  the 
official  documents  transcribed  at  full  length,  and 
all  the  unmeaning  gossip  and  scandal  of  the  court, 
springing  out  of  nothing,  and  tending  to  nothing. 
We  are  not  shocked  at  being  told  that  a  man  who 

10  lived,  nobody  knows  when,  saw  many  very  strange 
sights,  and  we  can  easily  abandon  ourselves  to  the 
illusion  of  the  romance.  But  when  Lemuel 
Gulliver,  surgeon,  resident  at  Rotherhithe,  tells  us 
of  pygmies  and  giants,  flying  islands,  and  philoso- 

15  phizing  horses,  nothing  but  such  circumstantial 
touches  could  produce  for  a  single  moment  a 
deception  on  the  imagination.  __ 

*\  ^  [^Of  all  the  poets  who  have  introduced  into  their *** ■'~ 

/    works  the  agency  of  supernatural  beings,  Milton 

so  has  succeeded  best?]  Here  Dante  decidedly  yields 
to  him;  and  as  this  is  a  point  on  which  many 
rash  and  ill-considered  judgments  have  been  pro- 
nounced, we  feel  inclined  to  dwell  on  it  a  little 
longer.     The  most  fatal   error  which  a  poet  can 

25  possibly  commit  in  the  management  of  his  machin- 
ery, is  that  of  attempting  to  philosophize  too 
much.  ^Milton  has  been  often  censured  for  ascrib- 
ing to  spirits  many  functions  of  which  spirits 
must  be  incapable..]   But  these  objections,  though 

so  sanctioned  by  eminent  names,   originate,   we  ven- 


72  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

ture  to  say,  in  profound  ignorance  of  the  art  of 
poetry. 

What  is  spirit?  What  are  our  own  mind's,  the 
portion  of  spirit  with  which  we  are  best  acquainted? 
We  observe  certain  phenomena.  We  cannot  5 
explain  them  into  material  causes.  We  therefore 
infer  that  there  exists  something  which  is  not 
material.  But  of  this  something  we  have  no  idea. 
We  can  define  it  only  by  negatives.  We  can 
reason  about  it  only  by  symbols.  We  use  the  10 
word ;  but  we  have  no  image  of  the  thing ;  and  the 
business  of  poetry  is  with  images,  and  not  with 
words.  The  poet  uses  words  indeed;  but  they  are 
merely  the  instruments  of  his  art,  not  its  objects. 
They  are  the  materials  which  he  is  to  dispose  in  15 
such  a  manner  as  to  present  a  picture  to  the  mental 
eye.  And  if  they  are  not  so  disposed,  they  are  no 
more  entitled  to  be  called  poetry  than  a  bale  of 
canvas  and  a  box  of  colors  to  be  called  a  painting. 

Logicians  may  reason  about  abstn.  ions.  But  20 
the  great  mass  of  men  must  have  images.  The 
strong  tendency  of  the  multitude  in  all  ages  and 
nations  to  idolatry  can  be  explained  on  no  other 
principle.  The  first  inhabitants  of  Greece,  there 
is  reason  to  believe,  worshipped  one  invisible  25 
Deity.  But  the  necessity  of  having  something 
more  definite  to  adore  produced,  in  a  few  centu- 
ries, the  innumerable  crowd  of  gods  and  god- 
desses. In  like  manner  the  ancient  Persians 
thought  it  impious  to  exhibit  the  Creator  under  a  30 


MILTON  rS 

human  form.  Yet  even  these  transferred  to  the 
Sim  the  worship  which,  in  speculation,  they  con- 
sidered due  only  to  the  Supreme  Mind.  The  his- 
tory of  the  Jews  is  the  record  of  a  continued 
5  struggle  between  pure  Theism,  supported  by  the 
most  terrible  sanctions,  and  the  strangely  fascinat- 
ing desire  of  having  some  visible  and  tangible 
object  of  adoration.  Perhaps  none  of  the  second- 
ary causes   which    Gibbon   has   assigned   for   the 

10  rapidity  with  which  Christianity  spread  over  the 
world,  while  Judaism  scarcely  ever  acquired  a 
proselyte,  operated  more  powerfully  than  this  feel- 
ing. God,  the  uncreated,  the  incomprehensible, 
the  invisible,  attracted  few  worshippers.    A  philos- 

15  opher  might    admire  so    noble  a  conception;  butc^^, 
the   crowd   turned   away   in   disgust    from   words  -^^^J 
which  presented  no  image  to  their  minds.     It  was 
before  Deity,  embodied  in  a  human  form,  walking 
among  men,  partaking  of  their  infirmities,  leaning 

20  on  their  bosoms,  weeping  over  their  graves,  slum- 
bering in  the  manger,  bleeding  on  the  cross,  that 
the  prejudices  of  the  Synagogue,  and  the  doubts 
of  the  Academy,  and  the  ]:>ride  of  the  Portico,  and 
the  fasces  of  the  Lictor,  and  the  swords  of  thirty 

-5  legions,  were  humbled  in  the  dust.  Soon  after 
Christianity  had  achieved  its  triumph,  the  prin- 
ciple which  had  assisted  it  began  to  corrupt  it.  It 
became  a  new  Paganism.  Patron  saints  assumed 
the  offices  of  household  gods.     St.   George    took 

30  the    place    of    Mars.      St.    Elmo     consoled    the- 


74  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

mariner  for  the  loss  of  Castor  and*  Pollux. 
The  Virgin  Mother  and  Cecilia  succeeded  to 
Venus  and  the  Muses.  The  fascination  of 
sex  and  loveliness  was  again  joined  to  that 
of  celestial  dignity;  and  the  homage  of  5 
chivalry  was  blended  with  that  of  religion, 
lieformers  have  often  made  a  stand  against  these 
feelings;  but  never  with  more  than  apparent  and 
partial  success.  The  men  who  demolished  the 
images  in  cathedrals  have  not  always  been  able  to  10 
demolish  those  which  were  enshrined  in  then* 
minds.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  show  that  in 
politics  the  same  rule  holds  good.  Doctrines,  we 
fire  afraid,  must  generally  be  embodied  before  they 
•can  excite  a  strong  public  feeling.  The  multitude  is 
is  more  easily  interested  for  the  most  unmeaning 
badge,  or  the  most  insignificant  name,  than  for  the 
most  important  principle. 

From  these  considerations,  we  infer  that  no  poet 
who  should  affect  that  metaphysical  accuracy  for  20 
the  want  of  which  Milton  has  been  blamed,  would 
escape  a  disgraceful  failure.  Still,  however,  there 
was  another  extreme  which,  though  far  less  dan- 
gerous, was  also  to  be  avoided.  The  imaginations 
of  men  are  in  a  great  measure  under  the  control  of  25 
their  opinions.  The  most  exquisite  art  of  jjoetical 
coloring  can  produce  no  illusion  when  it  is  em- 
ployed to  represent  that  which  is  at  once  perceived 
to  be  incongruous  and  absurd.  ^Milton  wrote  in 
an  age  of  philosophers   and  theologians.     Tt    was  so 


MILTON  75 

necessary,  therefore,  for  him  to  abstain  from  giv- 
ing such  a  shock  to  their  understandings  as  might 
break  the  charm  which  it  was  his  object  to  throw 
over  their  imaginations.      This  is  the  real  expla- 

5  nation  of  the  indistinctness  and  inconsistency  with 
which  lie  has  often  been  reproached./  Dr.  John- 
son acknowledges  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
that  the  spirits  should  be  clothed  with  material 
forms.     "But,"  says   he,  "the  poet  should   have 

10  secured  the  consistency  of  his  system  by  keeping 
immateriality  out  of  sight,  and  seducing  the  reader 
to  drop  it  from  his  thoughts."  This  is  easily 
said;  but  what  if  Milton  could  not  seduce  his 
readers  to  drop  immateriality  from  their  thoughts? 

is  What  if  the  contrary  opinion  had  taken  so  full  a 
possession  of  the  minds  of  men  as  to  leave  no 
room  even  for  the  half-belief  which  poetry 
requires?  Such  we  suspect  to  have  been  the  case. 
It  was  impossible  for  the  poet  to  adopt  altogether 

80  the  material  or  the  immaterial  system.  He  there- 
fore took  his  stand  on  the  debatable  ground.  He 
left  the  whole  in  ambiguity.  He  has  doubtless, 
by  so  doing,  laid  himself  open  to  the  charge  of 
inconsistency.     But,  though  philosophically  in  the 

25  wTong,  we  cannot  but  believe  that  he  was  poetic- 
ally in  the  right.  This  -task,  which  almost  any 
other  writer  would  have  found  impracticable,  was 
easy  to  him.  The  peculiar  art  which  he  pos- 
sessed of  communicating  his  meaning  circuitously 

30  through  a  long  succession  of  associated  ideas,  and 


76  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

of  intimating  more  than  he  expressed,  enabled  him 
to  disguise  those  incongruities  which  he  could  not 
avoid. 

Poetry  which  relates  to  the  beings  of  another 
world  ought  to  be  at  once  mysterious  and  pictur-  5 
esque.  That  of  Milton  is  so.  That  of  Dante  is 
picturesque  indeed  beyond  any  that  ever  was 
written.  Its  effect  approaches  to  that  produced  by 
the  pencil  or  the  chisel.  But  it  is  picturesque  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  mystery.  This  is  a  fault  on  10 
the  right  side,  a  fault  inseparable  from  the  plan  of 
Dante's  poem,  which,  as  we  have  already  observed, 
rendered  the  utmost  accuracy  of  description 
necessary.  Still  it  is  a  fault.  The  supernatural 
agents  excite  an  interest;  but  it  is  not  the  interest  15 
which  is  proper  to  supernatural  agents.  We  feel 
that  we  could  talk  to  the  ghosts  and  demons,  with- 
out any  emotion  of  unearthly  awe.  We  could,  like 
Don  Juan,  ask  them  to  supper,  and  eat  heartily  in 
their  company.  (^Dante's  angels  are  good  men  with  20 
wings.  His  devils  are  spiteful,  ugly  execution- 
ers. His  dead  men  are  merely  living  men  in 
strange  situations.  The  scene  which  passes 
between  the  poet  and  Farinata  is  justly  celebrated. 
Still,  Fariuata  in  the  burning  tomb  is  exactly  23 
what  Farinata  would  have  been  at  an  auto  daf$. 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  the  first  inter- 
view of  Dante  and  Beatrice.  Yet  what  is  it,  but 
a  lovely  woman  chiding,  with  sweet  austere  com- 
posure, the  lover  for  whose  affection  she  is  grate-  so 


MILTON  77 

ful,  but  whose  vices  she  reprobates?  The  feelinga 
which  give  the  passage  its  charm  would  suit  the 
streets  of  Florence  as  well  as  the  summit  of  the 
Mount  of  Purgatory. 

5  The  spirits  of  Milton  are  unlike  those  of  almost  all 
other  writers,  His  tiends,  in  particular,  are  wonder- 
ful creations.  They  are  not  metaphysical  abstrac- 
tions. They  are  not  wicked  men.  They  are  not  ugly 
beasts.     They  have  no  horns,  no  tails,  none  of  the 

10  fee-faw-fum  of  Tasso  and  Klopstock.  They  have 
just  enough  in  common  with  human  nature  to  be 
intelligible  to  human  beings.  Their  characters  are, 
like  then*  forms,  marked  by  a  certain  dim  resem- 
blance to  those  of  men,  but  exaggerated  to  gigantic 

15  dimensions,  and  veiled  in  mysterious  gloom?] 

Perhaps  the  gods  and  demons  of  ^Eschylus  may 
best  bear  a  comparison  with  the  angels  and  devils 
of  Milton.  The  style  of  the  Athenian  had,  as  we 
have  remarked,  something  of  the  Oriental  charac- 

20  ter;  and  the  same  peculiarity  may  be  traced  in  hie 
mythology.  It  has  nothing  of  the  amenity  and 
elegance  which  we  generally  find  in  the  supersti- 
tions of  Greece.  All  is  rugged,  barbaric,  ami 
colossal.     The  legends  of  .Eschylus  seem  to  har- 

25  monize  less  with  the  fragrant  groves  and  graceful 
porticoes  in  which  his  countrymen  paid  their  vows 
to  the  God  of  Light  and  Goddess  of  Desire,  than 
with  those  huge  and  grotesque  labyrinths  of  eternal 
granite    in  which    Egypt    enshrined    her    mystic 

30  Osiris,  or  in  which   Hindostan  still  bows  down  to 


78  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

her   seven-headed    idols.     His    favorite   gods   are 
those  of  the  elder  generation,  the  sons  of  heaven 
and  earth,  compared  with  whom  Jupiter  himself 
was  a  stripling  and  an  upstart,  the  gigantic  Titans, 
and  the  inexorable  Furies.     Foremost  among  bis    5 
creations   of   this   class   stands    Prometheus,    half 
fiend,  half  redeemer,  the  friend  of  man,  the  sullen 
and   implacable   enemy    of    heaven.     Prometheus 
bears  undoubtedly  a  considerable  resemblance  to 
the  Satan  of  Milton.     In  both  we  find  the  same   10 
impatience  of  control,  the  same  ferocity,  the  same 
unconquerable  pride.     In  both  characters  also  are 
mingled,   though    in  very   different    proportions, 
some  kind  and    generous  feelings.     Prometheus, 
however,  is  hardly  superhuman  enough.     He  talks   15 
too  much  of  his  chains  and  his  uneasy  posture ;  he 
is  rather  too  much  depressed  and  agitated.     His 
resolution  seems  to  depend  on  the  knowledge  which 
he  possesses  that  he  holds  the  fate  of  his  torturer 
in  his  hands,  and  that  the  hour  of  his  release  will   20 
surely  come.     But  Satan  is  a  creature  of  anothei 
sphere.     The  might  of  his  intellectual  nature  is 
victorious   over   the    extremity  of   pain.     Amidst 
agonies  which  cannot  be  conceived  without  horroi , 
he  deliberates,  resolves,  and  even  exults.     Again.-:    25 
the   sword   of    Michael,   against   the   thunder   of 
Jehovah,  against  the  flaming  lake,  and  the  marl 
burning  with  solid  fire,  against  the  prospect  of  an 
eternity  of  unintermitted  misery,  his  spirit   hears 
up  unbroken,  resting  on  its  own  innate  energies,   ao 


MILTON 

requiring  no  support  from  anything  external,  nor 
even  from  hope  itself. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  parallel  which 
we  have  been  attempting  to  draw  between  Milton 
5  and  Dante,  we  would  add  that  the  poetry  of  these 
great  men  has  in  a  considerable  degree  taken  its 
character  from  their  moral  qualities.  They  arc 
not  egotists.  They  rarely  obtrude  their  idiosyn- 
crasies  on  their  readers.     They  have  nothing  in 

10  common  with  those  modern  beggars  for  fame  who 

extort  a  pittance  from  the  compassion  of  the  inex- 

-  perienced  by  exposing  the  nakedness  and  sores  of 

their  minds.     Yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  name 

two  writers  whose  works  have   been   more   com- 

15  pletely,  though  undesignedly,  colored  by  their 
personal  feelings. 

The  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distin- 

I    guished  by  loftiness  of  spirit ;  that   of  Dante   by 

\  intensity  of  feeling.     In  every  line  of  the  Divine 

20  Comedy  we  discern  the  asjDerity  which  is  produced 
by  pride  struggling  with  misery.  There  is  perhaps 
no  work  in  the  world  so  deejay  and  uniformly 
sorrowful.  The  melancholy  of  Dante  was  no  fan- 
tastic caprice.     It  was  not,  as  far  as  at  this  dis- 

25  tance  of  time  can  be  judged,  the  effect  of  external 
circumstances.  It  was  from  within.  Neither  love 
nor  glory,  neither  the  conflicts  of  earth  nor  the  hope 
of  heaven,  could  dispel  it.  It  turned  every  conso- 
lation and  every  pleasure  into  its  own  nature.      It 

.so  resembled  that  noxious  Sardinian  soil  of  which  the 


80  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

intense  bitterness  is  said  to  have  been  perceptible 
even  in  its  honey.     His   mind  was,  in  the  noble 
language  of  the  Hebrew  poet,  "a  land  of  dark- 
ness, as  darkness  itself,  and  where  the  light  was  as 
darkness."     The  gloom  of  his  character  discolors    g 
all  the  passions  of  men  and  all  the  face  of  nature, 
and  tinges  with  its  own  livid  hue  the  flowers  of 
Paradise   and  the   glories   of   the  eternal  throne. 
All  the  portraits  of  him  are  singularly  character- 
istic.    No  person  can  look  on  the  features,  no  1)1  e   10 
even  to  ruggedness,  the  dark  furrows  of  the  cheek, 
the  haggard  and  woful  stare  of  the  eye,  the  sullen 
and  contemptuous   curve  of    the   lip,   and   doul- 
that  they  belong  to  a  man  too  proud  and  too  se. 
sitive  to  be  happy.  id 

Milton  was,  like  Dante,  a  statesman  and  a 
lover;  and,  like  Dante,  he  had  been  unfortunate 
in  ambition  and  in  love.  He  had  survived  his 
health  and  his  sight,  the  comforts  of  his  home,  and 
the  prosperity  of  his  party.  Of  the  great  men  by  so 
whom  he  had  been  distinguished  at  his  entrance 
into  life,  some  had  been  taken  away  from  the  evil 
to  come;  some  had  carried  into  foreign  climates 
their  unconquerable  hatred  of  oppression;  some 
were  pining  in  dungeons;  and  some  had  poured  29 
forth  their  blood  on  scaffolds.  Venal  and  licen- 
tious scribblers,  with  just  sufficient  talent  to 
clothe  the  thoughts  of  a  pandar  in  the  style  of  a 
bellman,  were  now  the  favorite  writers  of  the 
.Sovereign  and  of  the  public..     It  was  a  loathsome  so 


BOLTON  81 

herd,  which  could  be  compared  to  nothing  so  fitly 
as  to  the  rabble  of  Comas,  grotesque  monsters,  half 
bestial,  half  human,  dropping  with  wine,  bloated 
with    gluttony,    and   reeling    in   obscene    dances. 

5  Amidst  these  that  fair  Muse  was  placed,  like  the 
chaste  lady  of  the  Masque,  lofty,  spotless,  and 
serene,  to  be  chattered  at,  and  pointed  at,  and 
gri nned   at,    by   the    whole    rout    of    Satyrs    and 

.    Goblins.     If  ever  despondency  and  asperity  could 

10  be  excused  in  any  man,  they  might  have  been 
excused  in  Milton.  But  the  strength  of  his  mind 
overcame  every  calamity.  Xeither- blindness,  nor 
gout,  nor  age,  nor  penury,  nor  domestic  afflic- 
tions,  nor  political    disappointments,   nor    abuse, 

15  nor  proscription,  nor  neglect,  had  power  to  disturb 
his  sedate  and  majestic  ])atience.  His  spirits  do 
not  seem  to  have  been  high,  but  they  were  singu- 
larly equable.  His  temper  was  serious,  perhaps 
stern;  but  it  was  a  temper  which  no  sufferings 

20  could  render  sullen  or  fretful.  Such  as  it  was 
when,  on  the  eve  of  great  events,  he  returned  from 
his  travels  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly 
beauty,  loaded  with  literary  distinctions,  and  glow- 
ing with  patriotic  hopes,  such  it  continued  to  be 

as  when,  after  having  experienced  every  calamity 
which  is  incident  to  our  nature,  old,  poor,  sight- 
less, and  disgraced,  he  retired  to  his  hovel  to  die. 
Hence  it  was  that,  though  he  wrote  the  Para- 
dise Lost  at  a  time  of  life  when  images  of  beauty 

80   and  tenderness  are  in  general  beginning  to  fade, 


62  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

even  from  those  minds  in  which  they  have  not 
been  effaced  by  anxiety  and  disappointment,  he 
adorned  it  with  all  that  is  most  lovely  and  delight- 
ful in  the  physical  and  in  the  moral  world. 
Neither  Theocritus  nor  Ariosto  had  a  finer  or  a  5 
more  healthful  sense  of  the  pleasantness  of  exter- 
nal objects,  or  loved  better  to  luxuriate  amidst 
sunbeams  and  flowers,  the  songs  of  nightingales, 
the  juice  of  summer  fruits,  and  the  coolness  of 
shady  fountains.  His  conception  of  love  unites  all  10 
the  voluptuousness  of  the  Oriental  harem,  and  all 
the  gallantry  of  the  chivalric  tournament,  with  all 
the  pure  and  quiet  affection  of  an  English  fireside. 
His  poetry  reminds  us  of  the  miracles  of  Alpine 
scenery.  Nooks  and  dells,  beautiful  as  fairyland,  15 
are  embosomed  in  its  most  rugged  and  gigantic 
elevations.  The  roses  and  myrtles  bloom  un- 
chilled  on  the  verge  of  the  avalanche. 

Traces,  indeed,  of  the  peculiar  character  of 
Milton  may  be  found  in  all  his  works ;  but  it  is  20 
most  strongly  displayed  in  the  Sonnets.  Those 
remarkable  poems  have  been  undervalued  by  critics 
who  have  not  understood  their  nature.  They  have 
no  epigrammatic  point.  There  is  none  of  the 
ingenuity  of  Filicaja  in  the  thought,  none  of  the  25 
hard  and  brilliant  enamel  of  Petrarch  in  the  style. 
They  are  simple  but  majestic  records  of  the  feel- 
ings of  the  poet;  as  little  tricked  out  for  the  pub- 
lic eye  as  his  diary  would  have  been.  A  victory, 
an  expected  attack  upon  the  city,  a  momentary  tit  30 


MILTON 

of  depression  or  exultation,  a  jest  thrown  out 
against  one  of  his  books,  a  dream  which  for  a 
short  time  restored  to  him  that  beautiful  face  over 
which  the  grave  had  closed  forever,  led  him   to 

5  musings  which,  without  effort,  shaped  themselves 
into  verse.     The  unity  of  sentiment  and  severity  ' 
of    style   which    characterize   these    little   pieces 
remind  us  of  the   Greek  Anthology,   or  perhaps 
still  more  of  the  Collects  of  the  English  Liturgy. 

10  The  noble  poem  on  the  Massacres  of  Piedmont  is 
strictly  a  collect  in  verse. 

The  Sonnets  are  more  or  less  striking,  according 
as  the  occasions  which  gave  birth  to  them  are  more 
or  less  interesting.     But  they  are,  almost  without 

15  exception,  dignified  by  a  sobriety  and  greatness  of 
mind  to  which  we  know  not  where  to  look  for  a 
parallel.  It  would,  indeed,  be  scarcely  safe  to 
draw  any  decided  inferences  as  to  the  character  of 
a  writer  from  passages  directly  egotistical.     But 

20  the  qualities  which  we  have  ascribed  to  Milton, 
though  perhaps  most  strongly  marked  in  those 
parts  of  his  works  which  treat  of  his  personal  feel- 
ings, are  distinguishable  in  every  page,  and  impart 
to  all  his  writings,   prose    and    poetry,   English, 

ac  Latin,  and  Italian,  a  strong  family  likeness. 

His  public  conduct  was  such  as  was  to  be  ex- 
pected from  a  man  of  a  spirit  so  high  and  of  an  in- 
tellect so  powerful.  He  lived  at  one  of  the  most 
memorable  eras  in  the  history  of  mankind;  at  the 

so  very  crisis  of  the  great  conflict  between  Oromasdes 


84  MAC AUL AY'S   ESSAYS 

and  Arimanes,  liberty  and  despotism,  reason  and 
])rejndice.  That  great  battle  was  fought  for  no 
single  generation,  for  no  single  land.  The  destinies 
of  the  human  race  were  staked  on  the  same  cast 
with  the  freedom  of  the  English  people.  Then  were,  5 
first  proclaimed  those  mighty  principles  which 
have  since  worked  their  way  into  the  depths  of  the 
American  forests,  which  have  roused  Greece  from 
the  slavery  and  degradation  of  two  thousand  years, 
and  which,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  10 
have  kindled  an  unquenchable  fire  in  the  hearts  of 
the  oppressed,  and  loosed  the  knees  of  the  oppress- 
ors with  an  unwonted  fear. 

I  Of  those  principles,  then  struggling  for  their 
infant  existence,  Milton  was  the  most  devoted  and  is 
eloquent  literary  champion.  We  need  not  say  how 
much  we  admire  his  public  conduct.  But  we  can- 
not disguise  from  ourselves  that  a  large  portion  of 
his  countrymen  still  think  it  unjustifiable.  The 
civil  war,  indeed,  has  been  more  discussed,  and  is  9 
less  understood,  than  any  event  in  English  his- 
tory. The  friends  of  liberty  labored  under  the 
disadvantage  of  which  the  lion  in  the  fable  com- 
plained so  bitterly.  Though  they  were  the  con- 
querors, their  enemies  were  the  painters.  As 
body,  the  Roundheads  had  done  their  utmost  to 
decry  and  ruin  literature;  and  literature  wns  even 
with  them,  as,  in  the  long  run,  it  always  is  with 
its  enemies.  The  best  book  on  their  side  of  the 
question     is    the    charming     narrative    of     Mrs.   » 


MILTON 

Hutchinson.  May's  History  of  the  Parliament  is 
good;  but  it  breaks  off  at  the  most  interesting 
crisis  of  the  struggle.  The  performance  of  Lud- 
low is  foolish  and  violent ;  and  most  of  the  later 
«  writers  who  have  espoused  the  same  cause,  Old- 
mixon,  for  instance,  and  Catherine  Macanlay, 
have,  to  say  the  least,  been  more  distinguished  by 
zeal  than  either  by  candor  or  by  skill.  On  the 
other  side  are  the  most  authoritative  and  the  most 

10  popular  historical  works  in  our  language,  that  of 
Clarendon,  and  that  of  Hume.  The  former  is  not 
only  ably  written  and  full  of  valuable  information, 
but  has  also  an  air  of  dignity  and  sincerity  which 
makes  even  the  prejudices  and  errors  with  which 

15  it  abounds  respectable.  Hume,  from  whose  fasci- 
nating narrative  the  great  mass  of  the  reading 
public  are  still  contented  to  take  their  opinions, 
hated  religion  so  much  that  he  hated  liberty  for 
having  been  allied  with  religion,  and  has  plea* 

a    the  cause  of  tyranny  with  the  dexterity  of  an^Rjj 

cate,  while  affecting  the  impartiality  of  a  judg 

ij.  The  public  conduct  of  Milton  must  be  approved 

or  condemned,  according  as  the  resistance  of  the 

people  to  Charles  the  First  shall  appear  to  be  justi- 

-'"  riable  or  criminal.  We  shall  therefore  make  no 
apology  for  dedicating  a  few  pages  to  the  discus- 
sion of  that  interesting  and  most  important 
question.  We  shall  not  argue  it  on  general 
grounds.  We  shall  not  recur  to  those  primary  prin- 

30  ciples  from  which  the  claim  of  any  government  to 


$6  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

the  obedience  of  its  subjects  is  to  be  deduced.     We 
are  entitled  to  that  vantage-ground;  but  we  will 
relinquish  it.     We  are,  on  this  point,  so  confident 
of  superiority,  that  we  are  not  unwilling  to  imitate 
the     ostentatious     generosity    of     those     ancient    5 
knights,  who  vowed  to  joust  without  helmet  or 
shield  against  all  enemies,  and  to  give  their  antago- 
nists the  advantage  of  sun  and  wind.     We  will 
take  the  naked  constitutional  question.     We  con- 
fidently affirm,   that  every  reason  which   can   be   10. 
urged  in  favor  of  the  Revolution  of  1688  may  be 
urged  with  at  least  equal  force  in  favor  of  what  is 
called  the  Great  Rebellion. 
3     In  one  respect  only,  wre  think,  can  the  warmest 
admirers  of  Charles  venture  to  say  that  he  was  a   is 
better  sovereign  than  his  son.     He  was   not,   in 
name  and  profession,  a  Papist;  we  say  in  name 
and  profession,  because  both  Charles  himself  and 
his  creature  Laud,  while  they  abjured  the  innocent 
badges  of  Popery,  retained  all  its  worst  vices,  a  20 
complete  subjection  of  reason  to  authority,  a  weak 
preference  of  form  to  substance,  a  childish  passion 
for  mummeries,  an  idolatrous  veneration  for  the 
priestly    character,    and,    above    all,    a    merciless 
intolerance.     This,  however,  we  waive.     We  will   as 
concede  that  Charles  was  a  good  Protestant;  but 
we  say  that  his  Protestantism  does  not  make  the 
slightest  distinction  between  his  case  and  that  of 
James. 
H  The  principles  of  the  Revolution  have  often  been   ao 


MILTON  8? 

a     —iv  misrepresented,  and   never  more  than  in 

the  course  of  the  present  year.     There  is  a  certain 

class  of  men  who,  while  they  profess  to    hold  in 

reverence   the  great  names   and  great   actions   of 

5  former  times,   never  look  at  them  for  any  other 

purpose  than  in  order  to  find  in  them  some  excuse 

for  existing  abuses.     In  every  venerable  precedent 

they  pass  by  what  is  essential,  and  take  only  what 

is    accidental:  they    keep    out   of    sight    what    is 

10  beneficial,  and  hold  up  to  public  imitation  all  that 

is  defective.     If,  in  any  part  of  any  great  example, 

there  be  anything  unsound,  these  flesh-flies  detect 

it  with  an  unerring  instinct,  and  dart  upon  it  with 

a  ravenous  delight.     If  some  good  end  has  been 

15  attained   in  spite  of  them,  they  feel,   with   their 

prototype,  that 

"'  Their  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil  " 

U  To  the  blessings  which  England  has  derived 
20  from  the  Eevolution  these  people  are  utterly 
insensible.  The  expulsion  of  a  tyrant,  the  solemn 
recognition  of  popular  rights,  liberty,  security, 
toleration,  all  go  for  nothing  with  them.  One 
sect  there  wras,  which,  from  unfortunate  temporary 
86  causes,  it  was  thought  necessary  to  keep  under 
r-lose  restraint.  One  part  of  the  empire  there  was 
so  unhappily  circumstanced,  that  at  that  time  its 
misery  was  necessary  to  our  happiness,  and  its 
slavery  to  our  freedom.     These  are  the  parts  of  the 


88  MACAU  LAVS    ESSAYS 

Revolution  which  the  politicians  of  whom  we 
speak  love  to  contemplate,  and  which  seem  to 
them  not  indeed  to  vindicate,  but  in  some  degree 
to  palliate,  the  good  which  it  has  produced.  Talk 
to  them  of  Naples,  of  Spain,  or  of  South  America.  5 
They  stand  forth  zealots  for  the  doctrine  of  Divine 
Right,  which  has  now  come  back  tc  us,  like  a 
thief  from  transportation,  under  the  alias  of 
Legitimacy.  But  mention  the  miseries  of  Ireland. 
Then  William  is  a  hero.  Then  Somers  and  10 
Shrewsbury  are  great  men.  Then  the  Revolu- 
tion is  a  glorious  era.  The  very  same  persons 
who,  in  this  country,  never  omit  an  opportunity  of 
reviving  every  wretched  Jacobite  slander  respect- 
ing the  Whigs  of  that  period,  have  no  sooner  15 
crossed  St.  George's  Channel,  than  they  begin  to 
fill  their  bumpers  to  the  glorious  and  immortal 
memory.  They  may  truly  boast  that  they  look  not 
at  men,  but  at  measures.  So  that  evil  be  done, 
they  care  not  who  does  it ;  the  arbitrary  Charles  or  20 
the  liberal  William,  Ferdinand  the  Catholic  or 
Frederic  the  Protestant.  On  such  occasions  their 
deadliest  opponents  may  reckon  upon  their  candid 
construction.  The  bold  assertions  of  these  people 
have  of  late  impressed  a  large  portion  of  the  public  25 
with  an  opinion  that  James  the  Second  was  expelled 
simply  because  he  was  a  Catholic,  and  that  the 
Revolution  was  essentially  a  Protestant  Revolution. 
(,  Hut  this  certainly  was  not  the  case;  nor  can  any 
person  who  has  acquired  more  knowledge  of  the  30 


MILTON 

history  of  those  time?  than  is  to  be  found  in  Gold- 
smith's Abridgment,  believe  that,  if  James  had 
held  his  own  religions  opinions  without  wishing  to 
make    proselytes,    or    if,    wishing   even    to   make 

5  proselytes,  he  had  contented  himself  with 
exerting  only  his  constitutional  influence  for  that 
purpose,  the  Prince  of  Orange  would  ever  have 
been  invited  over.  Our  ancestors,  we  suppose, 
knew  their  own  meaning;  and,  if  we  may  believe 

10  them,  their  hostility  was  primarily  not  to  popery, 
but  to  tyranny.  They  did  not  drive  out  a  tyrant 
because  he  was  a  Catholic;  but  they  excluded 
Catholics  from  the  crown,  because  they  thought 
them  likely  to  be  tyrants.     The  ground  on  which 

15  they,  in  their  famous  resolution,  declared  the 
throne  vacant,  was  this,  "that  James  had  broken 
the  fundamental  laws  of  the  kingdom."  Every 
man,  therefore,  who  approves  of  the  Revolution  of 
1688   must  hold  that  the  breach  of  fundamental 

20  laws  on  the  part  of  the  sovereign  justifies  resist- 
ance.    The  question,  then,  is  this:  Had  Charles 
the  First  broken  the  fundamental  laws  of   Eng- 
land? 
*]  Xo  person  can  answer  in  the  negative  unless  he 

25  refuses  credit,  not  merely  to  all  the  accusations 
brought  against  Charles  by  his  opponents,  but  to 
the  narratives  of  the  warmest  Royalists,  and  to  the 
confessions  of  the  King  himself.  If  there  be  any 
truth  in  any  historian  of  any  party  who  has  related 

30  the  events  of  that  reign,  the  conduct  of  Charles,. 


90  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

from  his  accession  to  the  meeting  of  the  Long 
Parliament,  had  been  a  continued  course  of  oppres- 
sion and  treachery.  Let  those  who  applaud  the 
Revolution  and  condemn  the  Rebellion  mention 
one  act  of  James  the  Second  to  which  a  parallel  is  5 
not  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  his  father.  Let 
them  lay  their  ringers  on  a  single  article  in  the 

•   Declaration  of  Right,  presented  by  the  two  Houses 
to    William    and    Mary,    which    Charles    is    not 
acknowledged  to  have  violated..    He  had,  accord-   10 
ing  to  the  testimony  of  his  own  friends,  usurped 
the  functions  of  the  legislature,  raised  taxes  with- 
out  the   consent    of    parliament,    and    quartered 
troops  on  the  people  in  the  most  illegal  and  vex- 
atious manner.     Not  a  single  session  of  parliament   15 
had  passed  without  some  unconstitutional  attack 
on  the  freedom  of  debate.     The  right  of  petition 
was  grossly  violated ;  arbitrary  judgments,  exorbi- 
tant fines,  and  unwarranted  imprisonments,  were 
grievances  of  daily  occurrence.     If  these  things  do  30 
not  justify  resistance,  the  Revolution  was  treason ; 
if  they  do,  the  Great  Rebellion  was  laudable. 

\  But,  it  is  said,  why  not  adopt  milder  measures? 
Why,  after  the  King  had  consented  to  so  many 
reforms  and  renounced  so  many  oppressive  preroga-  25 
tives,  did  the  parliament  continue  to  rise  in  their 
demands  at  the  risk  of  provoking  a  civil  war?  The 
ship-money  had  been  given  up.  The  Star  Cham- 
ber had  been  abolished.  Provision  had  hern 
made    for    the    frequent    convocation    and    secure   so 


MILTON"  91 

deliberation  of  parliaments.  Why  not  pursue  an 
end   confessedly   good    by   peaceable   and   regular 

means'/  We  recur  again  to  the  analogy  of  the 
Revolution.  Why  was  James  driven  from  the 
throne?  Why  was  he  not  retained  upon  condi- 
tions? He  too  had  offered  to  call  a  free  parlia- 
ment, and  to  submit  to  its  decision  all  the  matters 
in  dispute.  Yet  we  are  in  the  habit  of  praising  our 
forefathers,  who  preferred  a  revolution,  a  disputed 

10  succession,  a  dynasty  of  strangers,  twenty  years  of 
foreign  and  intestine  war,  a  standing  army,  and  a 
national  debt,  to  the  rule,  however  restricted,  of  a 
tried  and  proved  tyrant.  The  Long  Parliament 
acted  on  the  same  principle,  and  is  entitled  to  the 

is  same  praise.  They  could  not  trust  the  King.  He 
had,  no  doubt,  passed  salutary  laws;  but  what 
assurance  was  there  that  he  wo  aid  not  break  them? 
He  had  renounced  oppressive  prerogatives ;  but 
where  wras  the  security  that  he  would  not  resume 

so  them?  The  nation  had  to  deal  with  a  man  whom 
no  tie  could  bind,  a  man  who  made  and  broke 
promises  with  equal  facility,  a  man  whose  honor 
had  been  a  hundred  times  pawned,  and  never 
redeemed. 

xrj  Here,  indeed,  the  Long  Parliament  stands  on 
still  stronger  ground  than  the  Convention  of  1688. 
No  action  of  James  can  be  compared  to  the  con- 
duct of  Charles  with  respect  to  the  Petition  of 
Right.     The    Lords  and   Commons    present    him 

30  with   a   bill   in  whjeh  the  constitutional   limits  of 


92  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

his    power   are   marked    out.     He   hesitates:    he 
evades ;  at  last  he  bargains  to  give  his  assent  for 
five  subsidies.     The  bill  receives  his  solemn  assent : 
the    subsidies   are   voted;  but    no   sooner   is    the 
tyrant  relieved  than  he  returns  at  once  to  all  the    5 
arbitrary  measures  which  he  had  bound  himself  to 
abandon,  and  violates  all  the  clauses  of  the  very 
Act  which  he  had  been  paid  to  pass. 
d    ™     For  more  than  ten  years  the  people  had  seen  the 
rights  which  were  theirs  by  a  double  claim,   by   10 
immemorial  inheritance,  and  by  recent  purchase, 
infringed  by  the  perfidious  King  who  had  recog- 
nized them.     At  length  circumstances  compelled 
Charles  to  summon  another   parliament:  another 
chance  was  given   to  our  fathers:    were  they  to  15 
throw  it  away  as  they  had  thrown  away  the  for- 
mer?    Were  they  again  to  be  cozened  by  le  Roi  le 
veut?     Were  they  again  to  advance  their  money  on 
pledges  which  had  been  forfeited  over  and  over 
again?     Were   they  to    lay  a  second   Petition   of  20 
Eight  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  to  grant  another 
lavish    aid  in    exchange  for  another    unmeaning- 
ceremony,  and  then  to  take  their  departure,  till, 
after   ten   years   more   of   fraud   and   oppression, 
their  prince  should  again  require  a  supply,  and  ag 
again  repay  it  with  a  perjury?     They  were  com- 
pelled   to    choose   whether    they   would    trust    a 
tyrant   or    conquer   him.     We    think    that    they 
chose  wisely  and  nobly. 
v  The  advocates  of  Charles,  like  the  advocates  of  so 


MILTON  93 

other  malefactors  against  whom  overwhelming 
evidence  is  produced,  generally  decline  all  contro- 
versy about  the  facts,  and  content  themselves  with 
calling  testimony  to  character,      lie  had  so  many 

5  private  virtues !  And  had  James  the  Second  no 
private  virtues?  Mas  Oliver  Cromwell,  his  bitter- 
est enemies  themselves  being  judges,  destitute  of 
private  virtues?  And  what,  after  all,  are  the 
virtues  ascribed  to  Charles?     A  religious  zeal,  not 

I  more  sincere  than  that  of  his  son,  and  fully  as 
weak  and  narrow-minded,  and  a  few  of  the  ordi- 
nary household  decencies  which  half  the  tombstones 
in  England  claim  for  those  who  lie  beneath  them. 
A  good  father !     A  good  husband !     Ample  apolo- 

15  gies  indeed  for  fifteen  years  of  persecution,  tyranny, 
and  falsehood ! 
i   UVe  charge  him  with  having  broken  his  corona- 
tion oath ;  and  we  are  told  that  he  kept  his  mar- 
riage vow !     AVe  accuse  him  of  having  given  up  his 

20  people  to  the  merciless  inflictions  of  the  most  hot- 
headed and  hard-hearted  of  prelates ;  and  the 
defence  is  that  he  took  his  little  son  on  his  knee, 
and  kissed  him!  We  censure  him  for  having 
violated  the  articles  of  the  Petition  of  Right,  after 

as  having,  for  good  and  valuable  consideration, 
promised  to  observe  them ;  and  we  are  informed 
that  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  prayers  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning!  It  is  to  such  consider- 
ations as  these,  together  with  his  Vandyke  dress, 
his  handsome  face,  and  his  peaked   beard,  that  he 


94  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

owes,   we  verily   believe,   most  of    his  popularity 
with  the  present  generation. 
*      For   ourselves,  we  own  that  we  do  not   under- 
stand the  common  phrase,  a  good  man,  but  a  bad 
king.     We  can  as  easily  conceive  a  good  man  and    5 
an  unnatural  father,  or  a  good  man  and  a  treacher- 
ous friend.     We  cannot,  in  estimating  the  charac- 
ter of  an  individual,  leave  out  of  our  consideration 
his  conduct  in  the  most  important  of  all  human 
relations ;  and  if  in  that  relation  we  find  him  to  10 
have  been  selfish,   cruel,  and    deceitful,   we  shall 
take  the  liberty  to  call  him  a  bad  man,  in  spite  of 
all  his  temperance  at  table,  and  all  his  regularity 
,at  chapel. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  adding  a  few  words  15 
respecting  a  topic  on  which  the  defenders  of 
Charles  are  fond  of  dwelling.  If,  they  say,  he 
governed  his  people  ill,  he  at  least  governed  them 
after  the  example  of  his  predecessors.  If  he  vio- 
lated their  privileges,  it  was  because  those  privi-  20 
leges  had  not  been  accurately  defined.  No  act  of 
oppression  has  ever  been  imputed  to  him  which 
has  not  a  parallel  in  the  annals  of  the  Tudors. 
This  point  Hume  has  labored,  with  an  art  which  is 
as  discreditable  in  a  historical  work  as  it  would  bt 
admirable  in  a  forensic  address.  The  answer  is 
short,  clear,  and  decisive.  Charles  had  assented 
to  the  Petition  of  Right.  He  had  renounced 
the  oppressive  powers  said  to  have  been  exercised 
by    his    predecessors,     and     he    had     renounced   u 


Hal 


MILTON 

them  for  money.  He  was  not  entitled  to  set  up 
his  antiquated  claims  against  his  own  recent 
release. 

■>  These  arguments  are  so  obvious  that  it  may 
5  seem  superfluous  to  dwell  upon  them.  But  those 
who  have  observed  how  much  the  events  of  that 
time  are  misrepresented  and  misunderstood,  will 
not  blame  us  for  stating  the  case  simply.  It  is  a 
case    of    which    the    simplest    statement    is    the 

10  strongest. 

The  enemies  of  the  Parliament,  indeed,  rarely 
choose  to  take  issue  on  the  great  points  of  the 
question.  They  content  themselves  with  exposing 
some  of  the  crimes   and  follies  to   which    public 

is  commotions  necessarily  give  birth.  They  bewail 
the  unmerited  fate  of  Strafford.  They  execrate 
the  lawless  violeuce  of  the  army.  They  laugh  at 
the  Scriptural  names  of  the  preachers.  Major- 
generals  fleecing  their  districts;  soldiers  revelling 

20  on  the  spoils  of  a  ruined  peasantry;  upstarts, 
enriched  by  the  public  plunder,  taking  possession 
of  the  hospitable  firesides  and  hereditary  trees  of 
the  old  gentry;  boys  smashing  the  beautiful  win- 
dows of  cathedrals ;  Quakers  riding  naked  through 

25  the  market-place;  Fifth-monarchy  men   shoutiiiL' 

for  King  Jesus;  agitators  lecturing  from  the  tops 

of  tubs  on  the  fate  of  Agag; — all  these,  they  tell 

us,  were  the  offspring  of  the  Great  Rebellion. 

/Be  it  so.     AVe  are  not  careful  to  answer  in  this 

30  matter.     These  charges,  were  they  infinitely  more 


96  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

important,  would  not  alter  our  opinion  of  an  event 
which  alone  has  made  us  to  differ  from  the  slaves 
who  crouch  beneath  despotic  sceptres.  Many 
evils,  no  doubt,  were  produced  by  the  civil  war. 
They  were  the  price  of  our  liberty.  Has  the  acqni-  5 
sition  been  worth  the  sacrifice?  It  is  the  nature  of 
the  Devil  of  tyranny  to  tear  and  rend  the  body 
which  he  leaves.  Are  the  miseries  of  continued 
possession  less  horrible  than  the  struggles  of  the 
tremendous  exorcism?  lfl 

^  If  it  were  possible  that  a  people  brought  up 
under  an  intolerant  and  arbitrary  system  could 
subvert  that  system  without  acts  of  cruelty  and 
folly,  half  the  objections  to  despotic  power  would 
be  removed.  We  should,  in  that  case,  be  compelled  is 
to  acknowledge  that  it  at  least  produces  no  perni- 
cious effects  on  the  intellectual  and  moral  charac- 
ter of  a  nation.  We  deplore  the  outrages  which 
accompany  revolutions.  But  the  more  violent  the 
outrages,  the  more  assured  we  feel  that  a  revolution  ~'<» 
was  necessary.  The  violence  of  those  outrages 
will  always  be  proportioned  to  the  ferocity  and 
ignorance  of  the  people;  and  the  ferocity  and 
ignorance  of  the  people  will  be  proportioned  to  the 
oppression  and  degradation  under  which  they  have  as 
been  accustomed  to  live.  Thus  it  was  in  our  civil 
war.  The  heads  of  the  church  and  state  reaped 
only  that  which  they  had  sown.  The  government 
had  prohibited  free  discussion;  it  had  done  its 
best  to  keep  the  people  unacquainted  with  their  so 


MILTON  9? 

duties  and  their  rights.  The  retribution  was  just 
and  natural.  If  our  rulers  suffered  from  popular 
ignorance,  it  was  because  they  had  themselves 
taken  away  the  key  of  knowledge.  If  they  were 
5  assailed  with  blind  fury,  it  was  because  they  had 
exacted  an  equally  blind  submission. 

/  f  It  is  the  character  of  such  revolutions  that  we 
always  see  the  worst  of  them  at  first.  Till  men 
have  been  some  time  free,  they  know  not  how  to 

10  use  their  freedom.  'The  natives  of  wine  countries 
are  generally  sober.  In  climates  where  wine  is  a 
rarity  intemperance  abounds.  A  newly  liberated 
people  may  be  compared  to  a  northern  army 
encamped  on  the  Rhine  or  the  Xeres.     It  is  said 

15  that,  when  soldiers  in  such  a  situation  first  find 
themselves  able  to  indulge  without  restraint  in 
such  a  rare  and  expensive  luxury,  nothing  is  to  be 
seen  but  intoxication.  Soon,  however,  plenty 
teaches  discretion;  and,  after  wine  has  been  for  a 

20  few  months  their  daily  fare,  they  become  more 
temperate  than  they  had  ever  been  in  their  own 
country.  In  the  same  manner,  the  final  and  per- 
manent fruits  of  libertv  are  wisdom,  moderation, 
and  mercy.     Its  immediate  effects  are  often  atro- 

25  eious  crimes,  conflicting  errors,  scepticism  on  points 
the  most  clear,  dogmatism  on  points  the  most 
mysterious.  It  is  just  at  this  crisis  that  its  ene- 
mies love  to  exhibit  it.  They  pull  down  the 
affolding    from    the    half-finished    edifice;    they 

so  point    to   the   flying  dust,  the  falling  bricks,  the 


98  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

comfortless  rooms,  the  frightful  irregularity  of  the 
whole  appearance;  and  then  ask  in  scorn  where 
the  promised  splendor  and  comfort  is  to  be  found. 
If  such  miserable  sophisms  were  to  prevail  there 
would  never  be  a  good  house  or  a  good  government    5 
in  the  world. 
0      Ariosto  tells  a  pretty  story  of  a  fairy,  who,  by 
some  mysterious  law  of  her  nature,  was  condemned 
to  appear  at  certain  seasons  in  the  form  of  a  foul 
and   poisonous    snake.     Those   who    injured    her  10 
during  the   period   of   her   disguise  were  forever 
excluded  from  participation  in  the  blessings  which 
she  bestowed.     But  to  those  who,  in  spite  of  her 
loathsome   aspect,   pitied  and  protected  her,   she 
afterwards  revealed  herself   in   the  beautiful   and  is 
celestial  form  which  was  natural  to  her,  accom- 
panied their  steps,  granted  all  their  wishes,  filled 
their   houses  with  wealth,  made  them  happy  in 
love    and    victorious    in   war.     Such   a    spirit   is 
Liberty.     At  times  she  takes  the  form  of  a  hateful  20 
reptile.     She  grovels,  she  hisses,  she  stings.     But 
woe  to  those  who  in  disgust  shall  venture  to  crush 
her !     And  happy  are  those  who,  having  dared  to 
receive  her  in  her  degraded  and  frightful  shape, 
shall  at  length  be  rewarded  by  her  in  the  time  of  25 
her  beauty  and  her  glory! 

'  There  is  only  one  cure  for  the  evils  which  newly 
acquired  freedom  produces;  and  that  cure  is  free- 
dom. When  a  prisoner  first  leaves  his  cell  he 
cannot    bear  the  lii>ht  of   days    he  is    unable    to   so 


MILTON  99 

discriminate  colors,  or  recognize  faces.  But  the 
remedy  is,  not  to  remand  him  into  his  dungeon y 
but  to  accustom  him  to  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The 
blaze  of  truth  and  liberty  may  at  first  dazzle  and 
5  bewilder  nations  which  have  become  half  blind  in 
the  house  of  bondage.  But  let  them  gaze  on,  and 
they  will  soon  be  able  to  bear  i^  In  a  few  years 
men  learn  to  reason.  The  extreme  violence  of 
opinions  subsides.     Hostile  theories   correct   each 

10  other.     The  scattered  elements  of  truth  cease  to 
contend,  and  begin  to  coalesce.     And  at  length  a 
system  of  justice  and  order  is  educed  out  of  the 
chaos. 
t-Many  politicians  of  our  time  are  in  the  habit  of 

15  laying  it  down  as  a  self-evident  proposition,  that 
no  people  ought  to  be  free  till  they  are  fit  to  use 
their  freedom.  The  maxim  is  worthy  of  the  fool 
in  the  old  story,  who  resolved  not  to  go  into  the 
water  till  he  had  learned  to  swim.     If  men  are  to 

20  wait  for  liberty  till  they  become  wise  and  good  in 

slavery,  they  may  indeed  wait  forever. 

^  Therefore  it  is  that  we  decidedly  approve  of  the- 

conduct   of  Milton  and  the  other  wise  and  good 

men  who,  in  spite  of  much  that  was  ridiculous  and 

25  hateful  in  the  conduct  of  their  associates,  stood 
firmly  by  the  cause  of  Public  Liberty.  We  are 
not  aware  that  the  poet  has  been  charged  with 
personal  participation  in  any  of  the  blamable 
■■xcesses  of  that  time.     The  favorite  topic  of  his 

»  enemies  is  the  line  of  conduct  which  lie  pursued 


100  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

with  regard  to  the  execution  of  the  King.  Of 
that  celebrated  proceeding  we  by  no  means 
approve.  Still  we  must  say,  in  justice  to  the 
many  eminent  persons  who  concurred  in  it,  and  in 
justice  more  particularly  to  the  eminent  person  5 
who  defended  it,  that  nothing  can  be  more  absurd 
than  the  imputatrbns  which,  for  the  last  hundred 
and  sixty  years,  it  has  been  tjie  fashion  to  cast 
upon  the  Regicides.  We  'have,  throughout, 
abstained  from  appealing  to  firsfr  principles.  We  10 
will  not  appeal  to  them  now.  We  recur  again  to 
the  parallel  case  of  the  Revolution^  What  essen- 
tial distinction  can  be  drawn  between  the  execu- 
tion of  the  father  and  the  deposition  of  the  son? 
What  constitutional  maxim  is  there  which  applies  15 
to  the  former  and  not  to  the  latter?  The  King 
can  do  no  wrong.  If  so,  James  was  as  innocent  as 
Charles  could  have  been.  The  minister  only 
ought  to  be  responsible  for  the  acts  of  the  Sover- 
eign. If  so,  why  not  impeach  Jeffreys  and  retain  20 
James?  The  person  of  a  King  is  sacred.  Was 
the  person  of  James  considered  sacred  at  the 
Boyne?  To  discharge  cannon  against  an  army  in 
which  a  king  is  known  to  be  posted  is  to  approach 
pretty  near  to  regicide.  Charles,  too,  it  should  35 
always  be  remembered,  was  put  to  death  by  men 
who  had  been  exasperated  by  the  hostilities  of 
several  years,  and  who  had  never  been  bound  to 
him  by  any  other  tie  than  that  which  was  common 
to  them  with  all  their  fellow-citizens.     Those  wh< 


MILTON  101 

drove  James  from  his  throne,  who  seduced  his, 
army,  who  alienated  his  friend^  «vho  first  wa- 
prisoned  him  in  his  palace,;  and  .then  (gorxted  him 

out  of  It,  who  broke  in  upon  his  very  slumbers  Oy 

5  imperious  messages,  who  pursued  him  with  fire 
and  sword  from  one  part  of  the  empire  to  another, 
who  hanged,  drew,  and  quartered  his  adherents/ 
and  attainted  his  innocent  heir,  were  his  nephew 
and  his  two  daughters.     AVhen  we  reflect  on  all 

10  these  things,  we  are  at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  the 
same  persons  who,  on  the  fifth  of  Xovember,  thank 
God  for  wonderfully  conducting  his  servant 
William,  and  for  making  all  opposition  fall  before 
him  until  he  became  our  King  and  Governor,  can, 

io  on  the  thirtieth  of  January,  contrive  to  be  afraid 
that  the  blood  of  the  Royal  Martyr  may  be  visited 
on  themselves  and  their  children. 
7   "We  disapprove,  we  repeat,  of  the  execution  of 
Charles;    not   because    the   constitution    exempts 

20  the  King  from  responsibility,  for  we  know  that  all 
such  maxims,  however  excellent,  have  their  excep- 
tions ;  nor  because  we  feel  any  peculiar  interest  in 
his  character,  for  we  think  that  his  sentence 
describes  him  with  perfect  justice  as  "a  tyrant,  a 

25  traitor,  a  murderer,  and  a  public  enemy;'-  but 
because  we  are  convinced  that  the  measure  wag 
most  injurious  to  the  cause  of  freedom.  He 
whom  it  removed  was  a  captive  and  a  hostage:  his 
heir,  to  whom  the  allegiance  of  every  Royalist  was 

30  instantly  transferred,  was  at  large.     The  Presby- 


102  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

terians  could  never  have  been  perfectly  reconciled 
to  the  father ,  they  had  no  such  rooted  enmity  to 
the  son.  The  groat  body  of  the  people,  also,  con- 
templated that  j:>roceedmg  with  feelings  which, 
however  unreasonable,  no  government  could  safely  5 
venture  to  outrage. 

*  But  though  we  think  the  conduct  of  the  Regi- 
cides blamable,  that  of  Milton  appears  to  us  in  a 
very  different  light.  The  deed  was  done.  It 
could  not  be  undone.  The  evil  was  incurred ;  and  10 
the  object  was  to  render  it  as  small  as  possible. 
We  censure  the  chiefs  of  the  army  for  not  yielding 
to  the  popular  opinion;  but  we  cannot  censure 
Milton  for  wishing  to  change  that  opinion.  The 
very  feeling  which  would  have  restrained  us  from  15 
•committing  the  act,  would  have  led  us,  after  it  had 
been  committed,  to  defend  it  against  the  ravings 
•of  servility  and  sujoerstition.  For  the  sake  of  public 
liberty  we  wish  that  the  thing  had  not  been  clone 
while  the  people  disapproved  of  it.  But,  for  the  20 
sake  of  public  liberty,  we  should  also  have  wis  lied 
the  people  to  approve  of  it  when  it  was  done.  If 
anything  more  were  wanting  to  the  justification  of 
Milton,  the  book  of  Salmasius  would  furnish  it. 
That  miserable  performance  is  now  with  justice  25 
considered  only  as  a  beacon  to  word-catchers  who 
wish  to  become  statesmen.  The  celebrity  of  the 
man  who  refuted  it,  the  "iEneae  magni  dextra," 
gives  it  all  its  fame  with  the  present  generation. 
In   that  age  the  state  of  things  was  different.     It  3c 


MILTOX  103 

was  not  then  fully  understood  how  vast  an  interval 
separates  the  mere  classical  scholar  from  the  polit- 
ical philosopher.  Nor  can  it  be  doubted  that  a 
treatise  which,  bearing  the  name  of  so  eminent  a 
5  critic,  attacked  the  fundamental  principles  of  all 
free  governments,  must,  if  suffered  to  remain 
unanswered,  have  produced  a  most  pernicious 
effect  on  the  public  mind. 
L    We  wish  to  add  a  few  words  relative  to  another 

10  subject,  on  which  the  enemies  of  Milton  delight  to 
dwell, — his  conduct  during  the  administration  of 
the  Protector.  That  an  enthusiastic  votary  of 
liberty  should  accept  office  under  a  military  usurper 
seems,    no   doubt,    at   first   sight,    extraordinary. 

15  But  all  the  circumstances  in  which  the  country 
was  then  placed  were  extraordinary.  The  ambi- 
tion of  Oliver  was  of  no  vulgar  kind.  He  never 
seems  to  have  coveted  despotic  power.  He  at  first 
fought  sincerely  and  manfully  for  the  Parliament, 

20  and  never  deserted  it  till  it  had  deserted  its  duty. 
If  he  dissolved  it  by  force,  it  was  not  till  he  found 
that  the  few  members  who  remained  after  so  many 
deaths,  secessions,  and  expulsions,  were  desirous  to 
appropriate  to  themselves  a  power  which  they  held 

as  only  in  trust,  and  to  inflict  upon  England  the 
curse  of  a  Venetian  oligarchy.  But  even  when 
thus  placed  by  violence  at  the  head  of  affairs,  he 
did  not  assume  unlimited  power.  He  gave  the 
country  a  constitution  far  more  perfect  than  any 

so   which  had  at  that  time  been  known  in  the  world. 


104  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

He  reformed  the  representative  system  in  a  manner 
which  has  extorted  praise  even  from  Lord  Claren- 
don. For  himself  he  demanded  indeed  the  first 
place  in  the  commonwealth;  but  with  powers 
scarcely  so  great  as  those  of  a  Dutch  stadtholder  5 
or  an  American  president.  He  gave  the  Parlia- 
ment a  voice  in  the  appointment  of  ministers,  and 
left  to  it  the  whole  legislative  authority,  not  even 
reserving  to  himself  a  veto  on  its  enactments ;  and 
he  did  not  require  that  the  chief  magistracy  should  10 
be  hereditary  in  his  family.  Thus  far,  we  think, 
if  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  the  opportu- 
nities which  he  had  of  aggrandizing  himself  be 
fairly  considered,  he  will  not  lose  by  comparison 
with  Washington  or  Bolivar.  Had  his  moderation  15 
been  met  by  corresponding  moderation,  there  is  no 
reason  to  think  that  he  would  have  overstepped  the 
line  which  he  had  traced  for  himself.  But  when 
he  found  that  his  parliaments  questioned  the 
authority  under  which  they  met,  and  that  he  was  20 
in  danger  of  being  deprived  of  the  restricted  power 
which  was  absolutely  necessary  to  his  personal 
safety,  then,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  he  adopted 
a  more  arbitrary  policy. 

*\  Yet,  though  we  believe  that  the  intentions  of  25 
Cromwell  were  at  first  honest,  though  we  believe 
that  be  was  driven  from  the  noble  course  which 
lie  had  marked  out  for  himself  by  the  almost  irre- 
sistible force  of  circumstances,  though  we  admire, 
in  common  with  all  men  of  all  parties,  the  ability  30 


MILTON  105 

and  energy  of  his  splendid  administration,  we  are 
not  pleading  for  arbitrary  and  lawless  power,  even 
in  his  hands.  "We  know  that  a  good  constitution 
is  infinitely  better  than  the  best  despot.     But  we 

5  suspect,  that  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  the 
violence  of  religious  and  political  enmities  rendered 
a  stable  and  happy  settlement  next  to  impossible. 
The  choice  lay,  not  between  Cromwell  and  liberty, 
but   between   Cromwell   and   the   Stuarts.     That 

10  Milton  chose  well,  no  man  can  doubt  who  fairly 
compares  the  events  of  the  protectorate  with  those 
of  the  thirty  years  which  succeeded  it,  the  darkest 
and  most  disgraceful  in  the  English  annals. 
Cromwell   was    evidently   laying,    though    in    an 

15  irregular  manner,  the  foundations  of  an  admirable 
system.  Xever  before  had  religious  liberty  and 
the  freedom  of  discussion  been  enjoyed  in  a  greater 
degree.  Xever  had  the  national  honor  been  better 
upheld  abroad,  or  the  seat  of  justice  better  filled  at 

20  home.  And  it  was  rarely  that  any  opposition 
which  stopped  short  of  open  rebellion  provoked  the 
resentment  of  the  liberal  and  magnanimous 
usurper.  The  institutions  which  he  had  estab- 
lished, as  set  down  in  the  Instrument  of  Govern- 

25  ment  and  the  Humble  Petition  and  Advice,  were 
excellent.  His  practice,  it  is  true,  too  often 
departed  from  the  theory  of  these  institutions. 
But  had  he  lived  a  few  years  longer,  it  is  probable 
that  his  institutions  would  have  survived  him,  and 

30  that  his  arbitrary  practice  would   have  died   with 


106  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

him.     His   power    had   not   been   consecrated   by 
ancient   prejudices.     It  was    upheld  only  by  his 
great  personal  qualities.     Little,  therefore,  was  to 
be  dreaded  from  a  second  protector,  unless  he  were 
also  a  second  Oliver  Cromwell.     The  events  which    5 
followed  his  decease  are  the  most  complete  vindi- 
cation of  those  who  exerted  themselves  to  uphold 
his    authority.     His    death    dissolved    the   whole 
frame   of    society.     The   army   rose    against    the 
Parliament,  the  different  corps  of  the  army  against   10 
each    other.      Sect    raved    against    sect.      Party 
plotted  against  party.     The  Presbyterians,  in  their 
eagerness   to   be   revenged  on   the  Independents, 
sacrificed  their  own  liberty,  and  deserted  all  their 
old  principles.     Without  casting  one  glance  on  the  15 
past,  or  requiring  one  stipulation  for  the  future, 
they  threw  down  their  freedom  at  the  feet  of  the 
most  frivolous  and  heartless  of  tyrants. 
jf  Then   came   those   days,    never   to   be   recalled 
without   a   blush,  the   days  of   servitude  without  20 
loyalty,  and  sensuality  without   love;  of  dwarfish 
talents  and  gigantic  vices;    the  paradise  of  cold 
hearts  and  narrow  minds;  the  golden  age  of  the 
coward,    the   bigot,    and    the   slave.     The    King 
cringed  to  his  rival  that  he  might  trample  on  his   23 
people,  sank  into  a  viceroy  of  France,  and  pocketed 
with  complacent  infamy  her  degrading  insults  and 
her  more  degrading  gold.     The  caresses  of  harlots, 
and  the  jests  of  buffoons,  regulated  the  policy  of 
the    state.      The    government    had    just    ability  & 


MILTON  10? 

enough  to  deceive,  and  just  religion  enough  to 
persecute.  The  principles  of  liberty  were  the  scoff 
of  every  grinning  courtier,  and  the  Anathema 
Maranatha  of  every  fawning  dean.     In  every  high 

5  place,  worship  was  paid  to  Charles  and  James, 
Belial  and  Moloch;  and  England  propitiated  those 
obscene  and  cruel  idols  with  the  blood  of  her  best 
and  bravest  children.  Crime  succeeded  to  crime, 
and  disgrace  to  disgrace,  till  the  race,  accursed  of 

10  God  and  man,  was  a  second  time  driven  forth,  to 
wander  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  to  be  a  by- 
word and  a  shaking  of  the  head  to  the  nations. 
Q  Most   of  the  remarks  which  we  have  hitherto 
made  on  the  public  character  of  Milton,  apply  to 

15  him  only  as  one  of  a  large  body.  We  shall  proceed 
to  notice  some  of  the  peculiarities  which  distin- 
guished him  from  his  contemporaries.  And  for 
that  purpose  it  is  necessary  to  take  a  short  survey 
of  the  parties  into  which  the  political  world  was  at 

20  that  time  divided.  We  must  premise  that  our 
observations  are  intended  to  apply  only  to  those 
who  adhered,  from  a  sincere  preference,  to  one  or 
to  the  other  side.  In  days  of  public  commotion 
every  faction,  like  an  Oriental  army,  is  attended 

25  by  a  crowd  of  camp-followers,  a  useless  and  heart- 
less rabble,  who  prowl  round  its  line  of  march  in 
the  hope  of  picking  up  something  under  its  pro- 
tection, but  desert  it  in  the  day  of  battle,  and 
often  join  to  exterminate  it  after  a  defeat.     Eng- 

30  land,  at    the    time    of    which    we    are    treating, 


108  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

abounded  with  fickle  and  selfish  politicians,  who 
transferred  their  support  to  every  government  as 
it  rose;  who  kissed  the  hand  of  the  King  in  1640, 
and  spat  in  his  face  in  1649;  who  shouted  with 
equal  glee  when  Cromwell  was  inaugurated  in  5 
Westminster  Hall,  and  when  he  was  dug  up  to  be 
hanged  at  Tyburn;  who  dined  on  calves'  heads,  or 
stuck  up  oak-branches,  as  circumstances  altered, 
without  the  slightest  shame  or  repugnance.  These 
we  leave  out  of  the  account.  We  take  our  esti-  io 
mate  of  parties  from  those  who  really  deserve  to  be 
called  partisans. 

fi  We  would  speak  first  of  the  Puritans,  the  most 
remarkable  body  of  men,  perhaps,  which  the 
world  has  ever  produced.  The  odious  and  ridicu-  15 
lous  parts  of  their  character  lie  on  the  surface. 
He  that  runs  may  read  them ;  nor  have  there  been 
wanting  attentive  and  malicious  observers  to  point 
them  out.  For  many  years  after  the  Restoration, 
they  were  the  theme  of  unmeasured  invective  and  20 
derision.  They  were  exposed  to  the  utmost  licen- 
tiousness of  the  press  and  of  the  stage,  at  the  time 
when  the  press  and  the  stage  were  most  licentious. 
They  were  not  men  of  letters;  they  were,  as  a 
body,  unpopular;  they  could  not  defend  them-  25 
selves;  and  the  public  would  not  take  them 
under  its  protection.  They  were  therefore  aban- 
doned, without  reserve,  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  satirists  and  dramatists.  The  ostentatious 
simplicity  of  their  dress,  their  sour  aspect,   their  :*o 


rm-         r  ■*   *-»■**■.. 


MILTON  109 

nasal  twang,  their  stiff  posture,  their  long  graces, 
their  Bebrew  names,  the  Scriptural  phrases  which 
they  introduced  on  every  occasion,  their  contempt 
of    human    learning,    their    detestation   of    polite 

5  amusements,  were  indeed  fair  game  for  the 
laughers.  Hut  it  is  not  from  the  laughers  alone 
that  the  philosophy  of  history  is  to  be  learned. 
And  he  who  approaches  this  subject  should  care- 
fully guard  against  the  influence  of  that  potent 

10  ridicule  which  has  already  misled  so  many  excel- 
lent writers. 

liEcco  il  fonte  del  riso,  ed  ecco  il  rio 
Che  mortali  perigli  in  se  contiene: 
Hor  qui  tener  a  fren  nostro  desio, 
15  Ed  esser  cauti  molto  a  noi  conviene." 

P  I  Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance;  wlio 
directed  their  measures  through  a  long  series  of 
eventful  years ;  who  formed,  out  of  the  most  un- 
promising materials,  the  finest  army  that  Europe 

20  had  ever  seen;  who  trampled  down  King,  Church, 
and  Aristocracy;  who,  in  the  short  intervals  of 
domestic  sedition  and  rebellion,  made  the  name  of 
England  terrible  to  every  nation  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,    were   no   vulgar   fanatics.     Most   of   their 

25  absurdities  were  mere  external  badges,  like  the 
-  _  ns  of  freemasonry,  or  the  dresses  of  friars.  We 
regret  that  these  badges  were  not  more  attract-. 
ive.  We  regret  that  a  body  to  whose  courage  and 
talents  mankind  has  owed  inestimable  obligations 

30  had  not  the  lofty  elegance  which  distinguished  seme 


Y. 


V. 


110  :,IACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

of  the  adherents  of  Charles  the  First,  or  the  easy 
good-breeding  for  which  the  Court  of  Charles  the 
Second  was  celebrated.     But,  if  we  must  make  our 
choice,  we  shall,  like  Bassanio  in  the  play,  turn 
from  the  specious  caskets  which  contain  only  the    5 
Death's  head  and  the  Fool's  head,  and  fix  on  the 
plain  leaden  chest  which  conceals  the  treasure. 
Q    V,  iJThe    Puritans    were    men    whose    minds    had 
U    ^derived  a  peculiar  character  from  the  daily  con- 
templation of  superior  beings  and  eternal  interests.   10 
j.Jfot  content  with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms, 
^  an  overruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed 
every  event  to  the  will  of  the  Great   Being,  for 
whose   power    nothing   was    too   vast,    for   whose 
inspection   nothing   was   too    minute.**  To   know  15 
him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him,  was  with  them 
the  great  end  of  existence.1!  They  rejected  with 
contempt    the  ceremonious    homage  which   other 
sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul. 
'.Instead   of    catching   occasional   glimpses   of   the  20 
Deity  through   an  obscuring  veil,  they  asjrired  to 
gaze  full  on  his  intolerable  brightness,  and  to  com- 
mune with  him  face  to  face.  C.  .Hence  originated 
their  contempt   for  terrestrial    distinctions  .T-  The 
difference  between  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  25 
mankind  seemed  to  vanish,  when  compared   with 
the  boundless  interval  which  separated  the  whole 
race  from  him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  con- 
stantly fixed.  %  They  recognized  no    title  t<>  supe- 
riority but  his  favor;  and,  confident  of  that  favor,   w 


MILTON  111 

they  despised  all  the  accomplishments  and  all  the 
dignities  of  the  world./.  If  they  were  unacquainted 
with  the  works  of  philosophers  and  poets,  they 
were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  #.If  their 

5  names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds, 
they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If  their 
steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train  of 
menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge 
over  them.  *  Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made 

10  with  hands ;  their  o^adems  crowns  of  glory  which, 
should  never  fade  away.  On  the  rich  and  the 
eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down 
with  contempt ;  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich 
in   a  more  precious  treasure,    and   eloquent   in  a 

15  more  sublime  language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an 
earlier  creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a 
mightier  hand.  ^The  very  meanest  of  them  was  a 
being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible 
importance   belonged,   on  whose    slightest    action 

20  the  spirits  of  light  and  darkness  looked  with 
anxious  interest,  who  had  been  destined,  before 
heaven  and  earth  Were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity 
which  should  continue  when  heaven  and  earth 
should   have  passed   away.  "Events  which  short- 

25  sighted  politicians  ascribed  to  t earthly  causes,  had 
been  ordained  on  his  account.' fc  For  his  sake  em- 
pires had  risen,  and  flourished  and  decayed.  For 
his  sake  the  Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by 
the  pen  of  the  Evangelist  arid  the  harp  of  the 

30  prophet.    -He  had  been  wrested   by  no   common 


112  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

It 

deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.     He 

had  been  ransomed   by   the    sweat  of    no  vulgar 
agony,  by  the  blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice,     it  was 
for  him  that  the  sun  had  been  darkened,  that  the 
rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had  risen,  that    5 
all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her 
expiring  God. 
3     Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different 
men,  the  one  all  self-abasement,  penitence,  grati- 
tude, passion;    the  other  proud,   calm,  inflexible,   10 
sagacious.     He    prostrated    himself    in   the   dust 
before  his  Maker ;  but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck 
of   his   king.     In   his    devotional    retirement,    he 
prayed  with    convulsions,  and   groans,  and  tears. 
He   was   half   maddened    by   glorious   or    terrible   15 
illusions.     He  heard  the  lyres   of   angels   or  the 
tempting  whisj^ers  of  fiends.     He  caught  a  gleam 
of  the   Beatific  Vision,' or  woke  screaming  from 
dreams  of  everlasting  fire.     Like  Vane,  he  thought 
himself  intrusted  with  the  sceptre  of  the  millennial  20 
year.     Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul. that  God  had  hid  his  face  from  him. 
But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt 
on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous  workings 
of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind  25 
them.      People    who   saw    nothing   of   the   godly 
but  their  uncouth  visages,  and  heard  nothing  from 
them  but  their  groans  and  their   whining  hymns, 
might  laugh  at  them.   But  those  had  little  reason  to 
laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  30 


MILTON  113 

or  in  the  field  of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought 
to  civil  and  military  affairs  a  coolness  of  judgment 
and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some  writers 
have    thought    inconsistent    with    their    religious 

s  zeal,  but  which  were  in  fact  the  necessary  eiV> 
of  it.     The  intensity  of  their  feelings  en  one  sub- 
ject made    them  tranquil    on    every   other.     One 
overpowering  sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself  pity 
and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear.     Death  had  lost  its 

10  terrors  and  pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their 
smiles  and  their  tears,  their  raptures  and  their  sor- 
rows, but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world.  Enthu- 
siasm had  made  them  Stoics,  had  cleared  their 
minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and   prejudice, 

15  and  raised  them  above  the  influence  of  danger  and 
of  corruption.  It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to 
pursue  unwise  ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise 
means.  They  went  through  the  world,  like  Sir 
Artegal's  iron  man  Talus  with  his  flail,  crushing 

20  and    trampling    down   oppressors,   mingling  with 
human  beings,  but  having  neither  part  nor  lot  in 
human  infirmities;  insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleas- 
ure, and  to  pain;  not  to  be  pierced  by  any  weapon, 
to  be  withstood  by  any  barrier. 

Co  V  Such  we  believe  to  have  been  the  character  of 
the  Puritans.  We  perceive  the  absurdity  oi  their 
manners.  Wc  dislike  the  sullen  gloom  of  their 
domestic  habits.  We  acknowledge  that  the  tone  oi 
their  minds  was   often  injured   by  straining  after 

so  things   too  high  for  mortal  reach;  and  we  knew 


1U  MAUAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

that,  in  spite  of  their  hatred  of  Popery,  they  too 
often  fell  into  the  worst  vices  of  that  bad  system, 
intolerance  and  extravagant  austerity;  that  they 
had  their  anchorites  and  their  crusades,  their 
Dunstans  and  their  De  Montforts,  their  Dominies  5 
and  their  Escobars.  Yet,  when  all  circumstances 
are  taken  into  consideration,  we  do  not  hesitate  to 
pronounce  them  a  brave,  a  wise,  an  honest,  and  a 
useful  body. 

»5  The  Puritans  espoused  the  cause  of  civil  liberty   10 
mainly  because  it  was  the  cause  of  religion.     There 
was  another  party,  by  no  means  numerous,   but 
distinguished  by  learning  and  ability,  which  acted 
with  them  on  very  different  principles.     AVe  speak 
of  those  whom  Cromwell  was  accustomed  to  call   is 
the  Heathens,  men  who  were,  in  the  phraseology 
of    that    time,    doubting    Thomases    or    careless 
Gallios   with    regard    to    religious    subjects,    but 
passionate  worshippers    of    freedom.     Heated    by 
the  study  of  ancient  literature,  they  set  up  their  20 
country  as  their  idol,  and  proposed  to  themselves 
the  heroes  of  Plutarch  as  their  examines.     They 
seem  to  have  borne  some  resemblance  to  the  Brisso- 
tines   of  the  French    Revolution,     But   it   is    not 
very- easy  to  draw  the  line  of  distinction  between   25 
them  ai  d  their  devout  associates,  whose  tone  ami 
manne     they  sometimes   found   it   convenient    to 
affect,  and  sometimes,  it  is  probable,  imperceptibly 
adopted. 
7  We    now   come    to    the    Royalists.     We    shall  30 


MILTON  115 

attempt  to  speak  of  them,  as  we  have  spoken  of 
their  antagonists,  with  perfect  candor.  We  shall 
not  charge  upon  a  whole  party  the  profligacy  and 
baseness  of  the  horse-boys,  gamblers,  and  bravoes, 

5  whom  the  hope  of  license  and  plunder  attracted 
from  all  the  dens  of  Whitefriars  to  the  standard  of 
Charles,  and  who  disgraced  their  associates  by 
excesses  which,  under  the  stricter  discipline  of  the. 
Parliamentary  armies,  were  never  tolerated.     We 

in  will  select  a  more  favorable  specimen.  Thinking 
as  we  do  that  the  cause  of  the  King  was  the  cause 
of  bigotry  and  tyranny,  we  yet  cannot  refrain  from 
looking  with  complacency  on  the  character  of  the 
honest  old  Cavaliers.     We  feel  a  national  pride  in 

15  comparing  them  with  the  instruments  which  the 
despots  of  other  countries  are  compelled  to  em- 
ploy, with  the  mutes  who  throng  their  antecham- 
bers, and  the  Janissaries  who  mount  guard  at  their 
gates.     Our  royalist  countrymen  were  not  heart- 

20  less,  dangling  com*tiers,  bowing  at  every  step,  and 
simpering  at  every  word.  They  were  not  mere 
machines  for  destruction,  dressed  up  in  uniforms, 
caned  into  skill,  intoxicated  into  valor,  defending 
without  love,  destroying  without   hatred.     There 

25  was  a  freedom  in  their  subserviency,  a  nobleness  in 
their  very  degradation.  The  sentiment  of  indi- 
vidual independence  was  strong  within  them. 
They  were  indeed  misled,  but  by  no  base  or  selfish 
motive.     Compassion^   and    romantic    honor,    the 

so  prejudices  of  childhood,  and  the  venerable  names 


116  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

of  history,  threw  over  them  a  spell  potent  as  that 
of  Duessa;  and,  like  the  Red-Cross  Knight,  they 
thought  that  they  were  doing  battle  for  an  injured 
beauty,  while  they  defended  a  false  and  loathsome 
sorceress.     In  truth,  they  scarcely  entered  at  all    E 
into  the  merits  of  the  political  question.     It  was 
not  for  a  treacherous  king  or  an  intolerant  church 
that  they  fought,  but  for  the  old  banner  which  had 
waved  in  so  many  battles  over  the  heads  of  their 
fathers,    and   for   the   altars   at   which   they   had   10 
received  the  hands  of  their  brides.     Though  noth 
ing  could  be  more  erroneous  than  their  political 
opinions,  they  possessed,  in  a  far  greater  degree 
than  their   adversaries,  those  qualities  which  are 
the  grace  of  private  life.     With  many  of  the  vices   is 
of  the   Round  Table,  they  had  also  many  of  its 
virtues, — courtesy,  generosity,  veracity,  tenderness, 
and  respect  for  women.     They  had  far  more  both 
of  profound  and  of  polite  learning  than  the  Puri- 
tans.    Their  manners  were  more  engaging,  their   ao 
tempers  more  amiable,  their  tastes  more   elegant, 
and  their  households  more  cheerful. 
*1   \JVIilton  did  not  strictly  belong  to  any  of  the  classes 
which  we  have  described,  ijle  was  not  a  Puritan. 
*  Jle  was  not  a  free  -thinker  M  lie  was  not  a  Royalist.    •;- 
Sln  his  character    the   noblest   qualities    of   every 
party  were  combined  in  harmonious  union* &  From 
the  Parliament  and  from  the  Court,  from  the  con- 
venticle and   from  the  Gothic  cloister,  from   tin- 
gloomy  and  sepulchral  circles  of  the  Roundheads, 


MILTON  111 

and  from  the  Christmas  revel  of  the  hospitable 
Cavalier,  his  nature  selected  and  drew  to  itself 
whatever  was  great  and  good,  while  it  rejected  all 
the  base  and  pernicious  ingredients  by  which  th< 

5  liner  elements  were  defiled.  "J  Like  the  Puritans,  he 
lived 

"As  ever  in  his  great  task-master's  eve 
Like  them,  he  kept  his  mind  continually  fixed  on 
an  Almighty  Judge  and  an  eternal  reward.1/  And 

10  hence  he  acquired  their  contempt  of  external 
circumstances,  their  fortitude,  their  tranquillity, 
their  inflexible  resolution  f*  But  not  the  coolest 
sceptic  or  the  most  profane  scoffer  was  more  per- 
fectly  free   from   the   contagion  of    their  frantic 

15  delusions,  then'  savage  manners,  their  ludicrous 
jargon,  their  scorn  of  science,  and  their  aversion 
to  pleasure../  Hating  tyranny  with  a  perfect 
hatred,  he  had  nevertheless  all  the  estimable  and 
ornamental   qualities   which   were   almost  entirely 

20  monopolized  by  the  party  of  the  tyrant./'-  There 
was  none  who  had  a  stronger  sense  of  the  value  of 
literature,  a  finer  relish  for  every  elegant  amuse- 
ment, or  a  more  chivalrous  delicacy  of  honor  and 
love. *!,■  Though  his  opinions  were  democratic,  his 

25  tastes  and  his  associations  were  such  as  harmonize 
best   with    monarchy    and    aristocracy.  fr  He   was 

-  under  the  influence  of  all  the  feelings  by  which  the 
gallant  Cavaliers  were  misled/-  But  of  those  feel- 
ings he  was  the  master  and  not  the  slave.-  *  Like 

30  the  hero  of  Homer,  he  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures  of 


118  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

fascination;  but  he  was  not  fascinated.  '  He 
listened  to  the  song  of  the  Sirens;  yet  he  glided 
by  without  being  seduced  to  their  fatal  shore. 
)  "He  tasted  the  cup  of  Circe;  but  he  bore  about  him 
a  sure  antidote  against  the  effects  of  its  bewitching  5 
sweetness,  l^  The  illusions  which  captivated  his 
imagination  never  impaired  his  reasoning  powers. 
jThe  statesman  was  proof  against  the  splendor,  the 
solemnity,  and  the  romance  which  enchanted  the 
poet. ' -I Any  'person  who  will  contrast  the  senti-  10 
ments  expressed  in  his  treatises  on  Prelacy  with 
the  exquisite  lines  on  ecclesiastical  architecture 
and  music  in  the  Penseroso,  which  was  published 
about  the  same  time,  will  understand  our  meaning. 
This  is  an  inconsistency  wrhich,  more  than  any-  15 
thing  else,  raises  his  character  in  our  estimation, 
because  it  shows  how  many  private  tastes  and  feel- 
ings he  sacrificed,  in  order  to  do  what  he  con- 
sidered his  duty  to  mankind.*^  It  is  the  very 
struggle  of  the  noble  Othello!'*  His  heart  relents ;  20 
but  his  hand  is  firm/5  He  does  naught  in  hate, 
but  all  in  honor. ^  He  kisses  the  beautiful  deceiver 
before  he  destroys  her. 

That  from  which  the  public  character  of  Milton 
derives  its  great  and  peculiar  splendor,  still  25 
remains  to  be  mentioned.  If  he  exerted  himself  to 
overthrow  a  forsworn  king  and  a  persecuting  hier- 
archy, he  exerted  himself  in  conjunction  with 
others.  But  the  glory  of  the  battle  which  he 
fought  for  the  species  of  freedom  which  is  the  most    so 


MILToN  119 

valuable,  and  which  was  thou  t lie  least  understood, 
the  freedom  of  the  human  mind,  is  all  his  own. 
Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  among  his  con- 
temporaries raised  their  voices  against  ship-money 

5  and  the  Star  Chamber.  But  there  Mere  few 
indeed  who  discerned  the  more  fearful  evils  of 
moral  and  intellectual  slavery,  and  the  benefits 
which  would  result  from  the  liberty  of  the  press 
and  the  unfettered  exercise  of  private  judgment. 

10  These  were  the  objects  which  Milton  justly  con- 
ceived to  be  the  most  important.  (He  was  desirous 
that  the  people  should  think  for  themselves  as  well 
as  tax  themselves,  and  should  be  emancipated  from 
the  dominion  of  prejudice  as  well  as  from  that  of 

15  Charles."/  He  knew  that  those  who,  with  the  best 
intentions,  overlooked  these  schemes  of  reform, 
and  contented  themselves  with  pulling  down  the 
King  and  imprisoning  the  malignants,  acted  like 
the  heedless  brothers  in  his  own  poem,  who,  in 

20  their  eagerness  to  disperse  the  train  of  the  sorcerer, 
neglected  the  means  of  liberating  the  captive. 
They  thought  only  of  conquering  when  they 
should  have  thought  of  disenchanting. 

"Oh,  ye  mistook!    Ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand 
■25        And  bound  him  fast.     Without  the  rod  reversed, 
And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 
We  cannot  free  the  lady  that  sits  here 
Bound  in  strong  fetters  fixed  and  motionless.'" 

$  J  To  reverse  the  rod,  to  spell  the  charm  backward, 
so  to  break  the  ties  which  bound  a  stupefied  peopL 


120  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

the  seat  of  enchantment,  was  the  noble  aim  of 
Milton.  To  this  all  his  public  conduct  was 
directed.  For  this  he  joined  the  Presbyterians; 
for  this  he  forsook  them.  He  fought  their  peril- 
ous  battle ;  but  he  turned  away  with  disdain  from  5 
their  insolent  triumph.  He  saw  that  they,  like 
those  whom  they  had  vanquished,  were  hostile  to 
the  liberty  of  thought.  He  therefore  joined  the 
Independents,  and  called  upon  Cromwell  to  bre"ak 
the  secular  chain,  and  to  save  free  conscience  from  10 
the  paw  of  the  Presbyterian  wolf.  With  a  view  to 
the  same  great  object,  he  attacked  the  licensing 
system,  in  that  sublime  treatise  which  every  states- 
man should  wear  as  a  sign  upon  his  hand  and  as 
frontlets  between  his  eyes.  His  attacks  were,  in  15 
general,  directed  less  against  particular  abuses 
than  against  those  deeply  seated  errors  on  which 
almost  all  abuses  are  founded,  the  servile  worship 
of  eminent  men  and  the  irrational  dread  of  inno- 
vation. 20 

That  he  might  shake  the  foundations  of  these 
debasing  sentiments  more  effectually,  he  always 
selected  for  himself  the  boldest  literary  services. 
He  never  came  up  in  the  rear,  when  the  outworks 
had  been  carried  and  the  breach  entered.  He  25 
pressed  into  the  forlorn  hope.-  At  the  beginning 
of  the  changes,  he  wrote  with  incomparable  energy 
and  eloquence  against  the  bishops.  But,  when 
his  opinion  seemed  likely  to  prevail,  he  passed  on 
to  other  subjects,  and   abandoned   prelacy  to   the  3o 


MILTON  L21 

crowd  of  writers  who  now  hastened  to  insult  a 
falling  party.  There  is  no  more  hazardous  enter- 
prise than  that  of  bearing  the  torch  of  truth  into 
those  dark  and  infected  recesses  in  which  no  light 
5  has  ever  shone.  But  it  was  the  choice  and  the 
pleasure  of  Milton  to  penetrate  the  noisome  vapors, 
and  to  brave  the  terrible  explosion.  Those  who 
most  disapprove  of  his  opinions  must  respect  the 
hardihood  with  which  he  maintained  them.     He, 

10  in  general,  left  to  others  the  credit  of  expounding 
and  defending  the  popular  parts  of  his  religious 
and  political  creed.  He  took  his  own  stand  upon 
those  which  the  great  body  of  his  countrymen 
reprobated  as  criminal,  or  derided  as  paradoxical. 

15  He  stood  up  for  divorce  and  regicide.  He  attacked 
the  prevailing  systems  of  education.  His  radiant 
and  beneficent  career  resembled  that  of  the  god  of 
light  and  fertility : — 

"Nitor  in  adversum;  nee  me,  qui  ceetera,  vincit 
20  Impetus,  et  rapido  contrarius  evehor  orbi." 

•  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  prose  writings  of 
Milton  should,  in  our  time,  be  so  little  read.  As 
compositions,  they  deserve  the  attention  of  every 
man  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
23  full  power  of  the  English  language.  They  abound 
with  passages  compared  with  which  the  finest 
declamations  of  Burke  sink  into  insignificance. 
They  are  a  perfect  field  of  cloth  of  gold.  The 
style  is  stiff  with  gorgeous  embroidery.     Not  even 


122  MACAULAY'S    ESSAYS 

in  the  earlier  books  of  the  Paradise  Lost  has  the 
great  poet  ever  risen  higher  than  in  those  parts  of 
his    controversial    works    in    which    his    feelings, 
excited    by   conflict,    find    a   vent    in    bursts   of 
devotional  and  lyric  rapture.     It  is,  to  borrow  his    ■ 
own    majestic    language,  "a   sevenfold    chorus  of 
hallelujahs  and  harping  symphonies." 
^L  We  had  intended  to  look  more  closely  at  these 
performances,    to  analyze  the  peculiarities  of  the 
diction,  to  dwell  at  some  length   on  the  sublime   10 
wisdom  of  the  Areopagitica  and  the  nervous  rhet- 
oric of  the  Iconoclast,  and  to  point  out  some  of 
those  magnificent    passages  which    occur    in  the 
Treatise  of  Keformation,  and  the  Animadversions 
on  the   Remonstrant.     But  the  length    to  which   15 
our  remarks   have  already  extended  renders  this 
impossible. 

We  must  conclude.  And  yet  we  can  scarcely 
tear  ourselves  away  from  the  subject.  The  days 
immediately  following  the  publication  of  this  relic  20 
of  Milton  appear  to  be  peculiarly  set  apart,  and 
consecrated  to  his  memory.  And  we  shall  scarcely 
be  censured  if,  on  this  his  festival,  we  be  found 
lingering  near  his  shrine,  how  worthless  soever 
may  be  the  offering  which  we  bring  to  it.  While  « 
this  book  lies  on  our  table,  we  seem  to  be  contem- 
poraries of  the  writer.  We  are  transported  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  back.  We  can  almost 
fancy  that  we  are  visiting  him  in  his  small  lodg- 
ing; that   wo  see   him   Bitting   at    the   old  organ  so 


MILTON"  123 

beneath  the  faded  green  hangings;  that  we  can 
catch  the  quick  twinkle  of  his  eyes,  rolling  in  vain 
to  find  the  day;  that  we  are  reading  in  the  lines 
of  his  noble  countenance  the  proud  and  mournful 
5  history  of  his  glory  and  his  affliction.  We  image 
to  ourselves  the  breathless  silence  in  which  we 
should  listen  to  his  slightest  word ;  the  passionate 
veneration  with  which  we  should  kneel  to  kiss  his 
hand    and  weep    upon  it;    the    earnestness   with 

1  which  we  should  endeavor  to  console  him,  if 
indeed  such  a  spirit  could  need  consolation,  for  the 
neglect  of  an  age  unworthy  of  his  talents  and  his 
virtues ;  the  eagerness  with  which  we  should  con- 
test with  his  daughters,  or  with  his  Quaker  friend 

15  El  wood,  the  privilege  of  reading  Homer  to  him,  or 
of -taking  down  the  immortal  accents  which  flowed 
from  his  lips. 

^  These    are    perhaps    foolish    feelings.     Yet    we 
cannot  be  ashamed  of  them ;  nor  shall  we  be  sorry 

so  if  what  we  have  written  shall  in  any  degree  excite 
them  in  other  minds.  We  are  not  much  in  the 
habit  of  idolizing  either  the  living  or  the  dead. 
And  we  think  that  there  is  no  more  certain 
indication  of   a  weak    and    ill-regulated   intellect 

25  than  that  propensity  which,  for  want  of  a  better 
name,  we  will  venture  to  christen  Boswellisni. 
But  there  are  a  few  characters  which  have  stood 
the  closest  scrutiny  and  the  severest  tests,  which 
have  been  tried  in  the  furnace  and  have  proved 
pure,  which  have  been  weighed  in  the  balance  and 


12-f  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

have  not  been  found  wanting,  which  have  been 
declared  sterling  by  the  general  consent  of  man- 
kind,  and   which    are  visibly  stamped  with    the 
image    and    superscription    of    the    Most   High. 
These  great  men  we  trust  that  we  know  how  to    5 
prize;  and  of  these  was  Milton.     The  sight  of  his 
books,  the  sound  of  his  name,  are  pleasant  to  us. 
His  thoughts  resemble  those  celestial  fruits    and 
flowers  which  the  Virgin  Martyr  of  Massinger  sent 
down  from  the  gardens  of  Paradise  to  the  earth,   10 
and  which  were  distinguished  from  the  productions 
of   other  soils,   not  only   by  superior   bloom    and 
sweetness,  but  by  miraculous  efficacy  to  invigorate 
and   to    heal.     They   are    powerful,    not    only   to 
delight,  but   to  elevate  and  purify.     Xor  do  we   15 
envy  the  man  who  can  study  either  the  life  or  the 
writings   of  the  great  poet  and  patriot,    without 
aspiring  to  emulate,  not  indeed  the  sublime  works 
with  which  his  genius  has  enriched  our  literature, 
but  the  zeal  with  which  he  labored  for  the  public  90 
good,  the  fortitude  with  which  he  endured  every 
private  calamity,  the  lofty  disdain  with  which  he 
looked  down    on    temptations    and   dangers,   the 
deadly  hatred  which  he  bore  to  bigots  and  tyrants, 
and  the  faith  which  he  so  sternly  kept   with  his  ,;. 
country  and  with  his  fame. 


THE  JLTFE   AND   WRITINGS 
OF  ADDISON 


The  Life  of  Joseph  Addison.    By  Lucy  Aikin.     2  vols., 
8va  London:  1843. 

Some  reviewers  are  of  opinion  that  a  lady  who 
dares  to  publish  a  book  renounces  by  that  act  the 
franchises  appertaining  to  her  sex,  and  can  claim 
no  exemption  from  the    utmost  rigor  of   critical 

5  procedure.  From  that  opinion  we  dissent.  We 
admit,  indeed,  that  in  a  country  which  boasts  of 
many  female  writers,  eminently  qualified  by  their 
talents  and  acquirements  to  influence  the  public 
mind,  it  would  be  of  most  pernicious  consequence 

10  that  inaccurate  history  or  unsound  philosophy 
should  be  suffered  to  pass  uncensured,  merely 
because  the  offender  chanced  to  be  a  lady.  But 
we  conceive  that,  on  such  occasions,  a  critic  would 
•  well  to  imitate  the  courteous  knight  who  found 
imself  compelled  by  duty  to  keep  the  lists  against 
Bradamante.  He,  we  are  told,  defended  sin 
fully  the  cause  of  which  he  was  the  champion;  but 
before  the  fight  began,  exchanged  Balisarda  for  a 

126 


126  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

less  deadly  sword,  of  which  he  carefully  blunted 
the  point  and  edge. 

Xor  are  the  immunities  of  sex  the  only  immu- 
nities   which   Miss   Aikin   may  rightfully   plead. 
Several   of   her   works,    and    especially   the   very    5 
pleasing  Memoirs  of  the  Reign  of  James  the  First, 
have  fully  entitled  her  to  the  privileges  enjoyed  by 
good  writers.     One  of  those  privileges  we  hold  to 
be  this,  that  such  writers,  when,  either  from  the 
unlucky  choice  of    a   subject,  or  from   the  indo-  10 
lence  too  often  produced  by  success,  they  happen  to 
fail,  shall  not  be  subjected  to  the  severe  discipline 
which  it    is  sometimes    necessary  to  inflict   upon 
dunces   and   impostors,  but   shall   merely   be  re- 
minded by  a  gentle  touch,  like  that  with  which  15 
the  Laputan  flapper  roused    his  dreaming    lord, 
that  it  is  high  time  to  wake. 

Our  readers  will  probably  infer  from  what  we 
have  said  that  Miss  Aikin's  book  has  disappointed 
us.  The  truth  is,  that  she  is  not  well  acquainted  20 
with  her  subject.  No  person  who  is  not  familiar 
with  the  political  and  literary  history  of  England 
during  the  reigns  of  William  the  Third,  of  Anne, 
and  of  George  the  First,  can  possibly  write  a  good 
life  of  Addison.  Now,  we  mean  no  reproach  to  25 
Miss  Aikin,  and  many  will  think  that  we  pay  her  a 
compliment,  when  we  say  that  her  studies  have 
taken  a  different  direction.  She  is  better  acquainted 
with  Shakespeare  and  Raleigh,  than  with  Con- 
greve  and  Prior ;  and  is  fur  more  at  home  among  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      127 

the  ruffs  and  peaked  beards  of  Theobald's  than 
among  the  Steenkirks  and  flowing  periwigs  which 
surrounded  Queen  Anne's  tea-table  at  Hampton. 
She  seems  to  have  written  about  the  Elizabethan 

5  age,  because  she  had  read  much  about  it ;  she 
seems,  on  the  other  hand,  to  have  read  a  little 
about  the  age  of  Addison,  because  she  had  deter- 
mined to  write  about  it.  The  consequence  is  that 
she  has  had  to  describe  men  and  things  without 

10  having  either  a  correct  or  a  vivid  idea  of  them,  and 
that  she  has  often  fallen  into  errors  of  a  very 
serious  kind.  The  reputation  which  Miss  Aikin 
has  justly  earned  stands  so  high,  and  the  charm  of 
Addison's  letters  is  so  great,  that  a  second  edition 

15  of  this  wTork  may  probably  be  required.  If  so,  we 
hope  that  every  paragraph  will  be  revised,  and 
that  every  date  and  fact  about  which  there  can  be 
the  smallest  doubt  will  be  carefully  verified. 

To  Addison  himself  we  are  bound  by  a  sentiment 

20  as  much  like  affection  as  any  sentiment  can  be, 
which  is  inspired  by  one  who  has  been  sleeping  a 
hundred  and  twenty  years  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
We  trust,  however,  that  this  feeling  will  not  betray 
us  into  that  abject  idolatry  which  we  have  often 

25  had  occasion  to  reprehend  in  others,  and  which 
seldom  fails  to  make  both  the  idolater  and  the  idol 
ridiculous.  A  man  of  genius  and  virtue  is  but  a 
man.  All  his  powers  cannot  be  equally  developed; 
nor  can  we  expect  from  him  perfect    self-knowl- 

30  edge.     We  need  not,  therefore,  hesitate  to  admit 


128  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

that  Addison  has  left  us  some  compositions  which 
do  not  rise  above  mediocrity,  some  heroic  poems 
hardly  equal  to  Parnell's,  some  criticism  as  super- 
ficial as  Dr.  Blair's,  and  a  tragedy  not  very  much 
better  than  Dr.  Johnson's.  Jt  is  praise  enough  to  5 
say  of  a  writer  that,  in  a  high  department  of 
literature,  in  which  many  eminent  writers  have 
distinguished  themselves,  he  has  had  no  equal; 
and  this  may  with  strict  justice  be  said  of  Addison. 

As  a  man,  he  may  not  have  deserved  the  ado-  10 
ration  which  he  received  from  those  who,  bewitched 
by  his  fascinating  society,  and  indebted  for  all  the 
comforts  of  life  to  his  generous  and  delicate  friend- 
ship, worshijyped  him  nightly  in  his  favorite  temple 
at  Button's.     But,  after  full  inquiry  and  impartial   15 
reflection,  we  have  long  been  convinced  that  he 
deserved  as  much  love  and  esteem  as  can  be  justly 
claimed  by  any  of    our    infirm  and   erring  race. 
Some  blemishes  may  undoubtedly  be  detected  in  his 
character;  but  the  more  carefully  it  is  examined,   20 
the  more  it  will  appear,  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  old 
anatomists,  sound  in  the  noble  parts,  free  from  all 
taint  of  perfidy,  of  cowardice,  of  cruelty,  of  ingrati- 
tude, of  envy.     Men  may  easily  be  named  in  whom 
some  particular    good  disposition   has   been  more  23 
conspicuous  than  in  Addison.     But  the  just  har- 
mony of  qualities,  the  exact  temper  between  the 
stern  and  the  humane  virtues,   the  habitual   ob- 

vance  of  every  law,  not  only  of  moral  rectitude, 
but  of  moral  grace  and   dignify,  distinguish   him  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       129 

from  all  men  who  have  been  tried  by  equally 
strong  temptations,  and  about  whose  conduct  we 
possess  equally  full  information. 

His  father  was  the  Reverend  Lancelot  Addison, 

5  who,  though  eclipsed  by  his  more  celebrated  son, 
made  some  figure  in  the  world,  and  occupies  with 
credit  two  folio  pages  in  the  Biographia  Britan- 
nica.  Lancelot  was  sent  up  as  a  poor  scholar  from 
"Westmoreland  to  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  in  the 

10  time  of  the  Commonwealth;  made  some  progress 
in  learning;  became,  like  most  of  his  fellow-stu- 
dents, a  violent  Royalist;  lampooned  the  heads  of 
the  university,  and  was  forced  to  ask  pardon  on 
his  bended  knees.     When  he  had  left  college  he 

is  earned  a  humble  subsistence  by  reading  the  liturgy 
of  the  fallen  church  to  the  families  of  those  sturdy 
squires  whose  manor-houses  were  scattered  over 
the  Wild  of  Sussex.  After  the  Restoration  his 
loyalty  was  rewarded  with  the  post  of  chaplain  to 

2C  the  garrison  of  Dunkirk.  When  Dunkirk  was 
sold  to  France  he  lost  his  employment.  But 
Tangier  had  been  ceded  by  Portugal  to  England  as 
part  of  the  marriage  portion  of  the  Infanta  Cathar- 
ine; and  to  Tangier  Lancelot  Addison  was  sent. 

25  A  more  miserable  situation  can  hardly  be  con- 
ceived. It  was  difficult  to  say  whether  the  unfortu- 
nate settlers  were  more  tormented  by  the  heats  or 
by  the  rains,  by  the  soldiers  within  the  wall  or  by 
the  Moors  without  it.     One  advantage  the  chaplain 

90  had.      He   enjoyed   an    excellent  opportunity   of 


130  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

studying  the  history  and  manners  of  Jews  and 
Mahometans;  and  of  this  opportunity  he  appears 
to  have  made  excellent  use.  On  his  return  to 
England,  after  some  years  of  banishment,  he  pub- 
lished an  interesting  volume  on  the  Polity  and  5 
Religion  of  Barbary,  and  another  on  the  Hebrew 
Customs  and  the  State  of  Rabbinical  Learning. 
He  rose  to  eminence  in  his  profession,  and  became 
one  of  the  royal  chaplains,  a  Doctor  of  Divinity, 
Archdeacon  of  Salisbury,  and  Dean  of  Lichfield.  10 
It  is  said  that  he  would  have  been  made  a  bishop 
after  the  Revolution  if  lie  had  not  given  offence  to 
the  government  by  strenuously  opposing,  in  the 
Convocation  of  1689,  the  liberal  policy  of  William 
and  Tillotson.  is 

In  1672,  not  long  after  Dr.  Addison's  return 
from  Tangier,  his  son  Joseph  was  born.  Of 
Joseph's  childhood  we  know  little.  He  learned 
his  rudiments  at  schools  in  his  father's  neighbor- 
hood, and  was  then  sent  to  the  Charter  House.  20 
The  anecdotes  which  are  popularly  related  about 
his  boyish  tricks  do  not  harmonize  very  well  with 
what  we  know  of  his  riper  years.  There  remains 
a  tradition  that  he  was  the  ringleader  in  a  barring 
out,  and  another  tradition  that  he  ran  away  from  25 
school  and  hid  himself  in  a  wood,  where  he  fed  on 
berries  and  slept  in  a  hollow  tree,  till  after  a  long 
search  he  was  discovered  and  brought  home.  If 
these  stories  be  true,  it  would  be  curious  to  know 
by  what  moral  discipline  so  mutinous  and  enter-  80 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON      131 

prising  a  lad  was  transformed  into  the  gentlest  and 
most  modest  of  men. 

"We  have  abundant  proof  that,  whatever  Joseph's 
pranks   may   have   been,    he  pursued   his   studies 

5  vigorously  and  successfully.  At  fifteen  he  was 
not  only  fit  for  the  university,  but  carried  thither 
a  classical  taste  and  a  stock  of  learning  which 
would  have  done  honor  to  a  Master  of  Arts.  He 
was  entered  at  Queen's   College,  Oxford;  but  he 

10  had  not  been  many  months  there  when  some  of  his 
Latin  verses  fell  by  accident  into  the  hands  of  Dr. 
Lancaster,  Dean  of  Magdalene  College.  The 
young  scholar's  diction  and  versification  were 
already  such    as  veteran    professors  might    envy. 

15  Dr.  Lancaster  was  desirous  to  serve  a  boy  of  such 
promise;  nor  was  an  opportunity  long  wanting. 
The  Revolution  had  just  taken  place;  and  nowhere 
had  it  been  hailed  with  more  delight  than  at 
Magdalene  College.     That  great  and  opulent  cor- 

20  poration  had  been  treated  by  James  and  by  his 
chancellor  with  an  insolence  and  injustice  which, 
even  in  such  a  prince  and  in  such  a  minister,  may 
justly  excite  amazement,  and  which  had  done 
more  than  even  the  prosecution  of  the  bishops  to 

s»  alienate  the  Church  of  England  from  the  throne. 
A  president,  duly  elected,  had  been  violently  ex- 
pelled from  his  dwelling:  a  Papist  had  been  set 
over  the  society  by  a  royal  mandate :  the  Fellows, 
who,  in  conformity  with  their  oaths,  had  refused 

so  to  submit  to  this  usurper,  had  been  driven  forth 


132  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

from  their  quiet  cloisters  and  gardens,  to  die  of 
want  or  to  live  on  charity.  But  the  day  of  redress 
and  retribution  speedily  came.  The  intruders  were 
ejected :  the  venerable  House  was  again  inhabited 
by  its  old  inmates :  learning  flourished  under  the  5 
rule  of  the  wise  and  virtuous  Hough;  and  with 
learning  was  united  a  mild  and  liberal  spirit  too 
often  wanting  in  the  princely  colleges  of  Oxford. 
In  consequence  of  the  troubles  through  which  the 
society  had  passed,  there  had  been  no  valid  elec-  10 
tion  of  new  members  during  the  year  1688.  In 
1689,  therefore,  there  was  twice  the  ordinary  num- 
ber of  vacancies;  and  thus  Dr.  Lancaster  found 
it  easy  to  procure  for  his  young  friend  admittance 
to  the  advantages  of  a  foundation  then  generally  is 
esteemed  the  wealthiest  in  Europe. 

At  Magdalene  Addison  resided  during  ten  years. 
He  was  at  first  one  of  those  scholars  who  are  called 
Demies,  but  was  subsequently  elected  a  fellow. 
His  college  is  still  proud  of  his  name ;  his  portrait  20 
still  hangs  in  the  hall ;  and  strangers  are  still  told 
that  his  favorite  walk  was  under  the  elms  which 
fringe  the  meadow  on  the  banks  of  the  Cherwell. 
It  is  said,  and  is  highly  probable,  that  he  was  dis- 
tinguished among  his  fellow -students  by  the  deli-  25 
cacy  of  his  feelings,  by  the  shyness  of  his  manners, 
and  by  the  assiduity  with  which  he  often  prolonged 
his  studies  far  into  the  night.  It  is  certain  that 
his  reputation  for  ability  and  learning  stood  high. 
Many  years  later  the  ancient  doctors  of  Magdalene  n 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      133 

continued  to  talk  in  their  common  room  of  his 
boyish  compositions,  and  expressed  their  Borrow 
that  no  copy  of  exercises  so  remarkable  had  been 
preserved.     It  is  proper,  however,  to  remark  that 

5  Miss  Aikin  has  committed  the  error,  very  par- 
donable in  a  lady,  of  overrating  Addison's  classical 
attainments.  In  one  department  of  learning, 
indeed,  his  proficiency  was  such  as  it  is  hardly  pos- 
sible to  overrate.     His   knowledge  of    the   Latin 

10  poets,  from  Lucretius  and  Catullus  down  to  Clau- 
dian  and  Prudentius,  was  singularly  exact  and  pro- 
found. He  understood  them  thoroughly,  entered 
into  their  spirit,  and  had  the  finest  and  most 
discriminating  perception  of  all  their  peculiarities 

is  of  style  and  melody;  nay,  he  copied  their  manner 
with  admirable  skill,  and  surpassed,  we  think,  all 
their  British  imitators  who  had  preceded  him, 
Buchanan  and  Milton  alone  excepted.  This  is  high 
praise ;  and  beyond  this  we  cannot  with  justice  go. 

20  It  is  clear  that  Addison's  serious  attention  during 
his  residence  at  the  university  was  almost  entirely 
concentrated  on  Latin  poetry,  and  that,  if  he  did 
not  wholly  neglect  other  provinces  of  ancient 
literature,  he  vouchsafed  to  them  only  a  cursory 

25  glance.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  attained  more 
than  an  ordinary  acquaintance  with  the  political 
and  moral  writers  of  Eome;  nor  was  his  own 
Latin  prose  by  any  means  equal  to  his  Latin  verse. 
His  knowledge  of  Greek,  though  doubtless  such  as 

so  was  in  his  time  thought  respectable  at  Oxford,  was 


134  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

evidently  less  than  that  which  many  lads  now  carry 
away  every  year  from  Eton  and  Rugby.  A  mi- 
nute examination  of  his  works,  if  we  had  time  to 
make  such  an  examination,  would  fully  bear  out 
these  remarks.  We  will  briefly  advert  to  a  few  of  5 
the  facts  on  which  our  judgment  is  grounded. 

Great  praise  is  due  to  the  Notes  which  Addison 
appended  to  his  version  of  the  second  and  third 
books  of    the  Metamorphoses.     Yet  those    notes, 
while  they  show  him  to  have  been,  in  his  own  10 
domain,  an  accomplished  scholar,  show  also  how 
confined    that    domain   was.     They   are    rich   in 
apposite  references  to  Virgil,    Statius,  and  Clau- 
dian;    but  they  contain  not  a  single   illustration 
drawn   from   the   Greek   poets.     Now,   if   in   the  is 
whole  compass  of  Latin  literature  there  be  a  pas- 
sage which  stands  in  need  of  illustration  drawn 
from  the  Greek  poets,  it  is  the  story  of  Pentheus  in 
the  third  book  of  the  Metamorphoses.     Ovid  was 
indebted  for  that  story  to  Euripides  and  Theoc-  20 
ritus,  both  of  whom  he  has   sometimes  followed 
minutely.     But  neither  to  Euripides  nor  to  Theoc- 
ritus does  Addison  make  the  faintest  allusion ;  and 
we,  therefore,  believe  that  we  do  not  wrong  him 
by  supposing  that  he  had  little  or  no  knowledge  of  25 
their  works. 

His  travels  in  Italy,  again,  abound  with  classical 
quotations,  happily  introduced;  but  scarcely  one 
of  those  quotations  is  in  prose.  lie  draws  more 
illustrations  from  Ausonius  and  Manilius  than  from  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      135 

Cicero.  Even  his  notions  of  the  political  and  mili- 
tary affairs  of  the  Romans  seem  to  be  derived  from 
poets  and  poetasters.  Spots  made  memorable  by 
events  which  have  changed  the  destinies  of   the 

5  world,  and  which  have  been  worthily  recorded  by 
great  historians,  bring  to  his  mind  only  scraps  of 
some  ancient  versifier.  In  the  gorge  of  the  Apen- 
nines he  naturally  remembers  the  hardships  which 
Hannibal's  army  endured,  and  proceeds  to  cite, 

10  not  the  authentic  narrative  of  Polybius,  not  the 
picturesque  narrative  of  Livy,  but  the  languid 
hexameters  of  Silius  Italicus.  On  the  banks  of 
the  Rubicon  he  never  thinks  of  Plutarch's  lively 
description,    or   of    the   stern    conciseness   of   the 

15  Commentaries,  or  of  those  letters  to  Atticus  which 

so  forcibly  express  the  alternations  of  hope  and 

fear  in  a  sensitive  mind  at  a  great  crisis.     His  only 

authority  for  the  events  of  the  civil  war  is  Lucan. 

All  the  best  ancient  works  of  art  at  Rome  and 

20  Florence  are  Greek.  Addison  saw  them,  how- 
ever, without  recalling  one  single  verse  of  Pindar, 
of  Callimachus,  or  of  the  Attic  dramatists;  but 
they  brought  to  his  recollection  innumerable  pas- 
sages of  Horace,  Juvenal,  Statius,  and  Ovid. 

25  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  Treatise  oi^ 
Medals.  In  that  pleasing  work  we  find  about 
three  hundred  passages  extracted  with  great  judg- 
ment from  the  Roman  poets ;  but  we  do  not  recol- 
lect a  single  passage  taken  from  any  Roman  orator 

30  or  historian;  and  we  are  confident  that  not  a  line 


136  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

is  quoted  from  any  Greek  writer.     ]STo  person,  who 
had  derived  all  his  information  on  the  subject  of 
medals   from   Addison,    would    suspect   that    the    . 
Greek  coins  were  in  historical  interest  equal,  and 
in  beauty  of  execution  far    superior,  to  those  of    a 
Rome. 

If  it  were  necessary  to  find  any  further  proof 
that  Addison's  classical  knowledge  was  confined 
within  narrow  limits,  that  proof  would  be  fur- 
nished by  his  Essay  on  the  Evidences  of  Christi-  10 
anity.  The  Roman  poets  throw  little  or  no  light 
on  the  literary  and  historical  questions  which  he  is 
under  the  necessity  of  examining  in  that  essay. 
He  is,  therefore,  left  completely  in  the  dark;  and 
it  is  melancholy  to  see  how  helplessly  he  gropes  his  is 
way  from  blunder  to  blunder.  He  assigns,  as 
grounds  for  his  religious  belief,  stories  as  absurd  as 
that  of  the  Cock-Lane  ghost,  and  forgeries  as  rank 
as  Ireland's  Vortigern;  puts  faith  in  the  lie  about 
the  Thundering  Legion;  is  convinced  that  Tiber-  20 
ins  moved  the  senate  to  admit  Jesns  among  the 
gods;  and  pronounces  the  letter  of  Agbarus,  King 
of  Edessa,  to  be  a  record  of  great  authority.  Nor 
were  these  errors  the  effects  of  superstition ;  for  to 
superstition  Addison  was  by  no  means  prone.  The  25 
truth  is,  that  he  was  writing  about  what  he  did  not 
understand. 

Miss  Aikin  has  discovered  a  letter  from  which  it 
appears  that,  while  Addison  resided  at  Oxford,  he 
was  one  of  several  writers  whom  the  booksellers  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       137 

engaged  to  make  an  English  version  of  Herodotus ; 
and  she  infers  that  he  must  have  been  a  good 
Greek  scholar.  We  can  allow  very  little  weight  to 
this  argument,  when  we  consider  that  his  fellow- 

5  laborers  were  to  have  been  Boyle  and  Blackmore. 
Boyle  is  remembered  chiefly  as  the  nominal  author 
of  the  worst  book  on  Greek  history  and  philology 
that  ever  was  printed;  and  this  book,  bad  as  it  is, 
Boyle  was  unable  to  produce  without   help.     Of 

10  Blackmore 's  attainments  in  the  ancient  tongues, 
it  may  be  sufficient  to  say  that,  in  his  prose,  he  has 
confounded  an  aphorism  with  an  apophthegm,  and 
tha.t  when,  in  his  verse,  he  treats  of  classical  sub- 
jects, his  habit  is  to  regale  his  readers  with  four 

is  false  quantities  to  a  page. 

It  is  probable  that  the  classical  acquirements  of 
Addison  were  of  as  much  service  to  him  as  if  they 
had  been  more  extensive.  The  world  generally 
gives  its  admiration,   not  to  the   man  who  does 

20  what  nobody  else  even  attempts  to  do,  but  to  the 
man  who  does  best  what  multitudes  do  well. 
Bentley  was  so  immeasurably  superior  to  all  the 
other  scholars  of  his  time  that  few  among  them 
could  discover   his  superiority.     But  the  accom- 

25  plishment  in  which  Addison  excelled  his  contem- 
poraries was  then,  as  it  is  now,  highly  valued  and 
assiduously  cultivated  at  all  English  seats  of  learn- 
ing. Everybody  who  had  been  at  a  public  school 
had  written  Latin  verses ;  many  had  written  such 

30  verses  with  tolerable  success,  and  were  quite  able 


138  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

to  appreciate,  though  by  no  means  able  to  rival, 
the  skill  with  which  Addison  imitated  Virgil.  His 
lines  on  the  Barometer  and  the  Bowling  Green 
were  applauded  by  hundreds,  to  whom  the  Disser- 
tation on  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris  was  as  unintel-  5 
ligible  as  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  obelisk. 

Purity  of  style,  and  an  easy  flow  of  numbers, 
are  common  to  all  Addison's  Latin  poems.  Our 
favorite  piece  is  the  Battle  of  the  Cranes  and 
Pygmies ;  for  in  that  piece  we  discern  a  gleam  of  10 
the  fancy  and  humor  which  many  years  later 
enlivened  thousands  of  breakfast -tables.  Swift 
boasted  that  he  was  never  known  to  steal  a  hint ; 
and  he  certainly  owed  as  little  to  his  predecessors 
as  any  modern  writer.  Yet  we  cannot  help  sus-  is 
pecting  that  he  borrowed,  perhaps  unconsciously, 
one  of  the  happiest  touches  in  his  Voyage  of  Lilli- 
put  from  Addison's  verses.     Let  our  readers  judge. 

"The   Emperor,"   says    Gulliver,   "is  taller   by 
about   the   breadth   of   my  nail   than  any  of  his  20 
court,  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into 
the  beholders." 

About    thirty  years    before    Gulliver's    Travels 
appeared,  Addison  wrote  these  lines : — 

"Jamque  acies  inter  medias  sese  arduus  infert  25 

Pygmeadum  ductor,  qui,  majestate  verendus, 
Incessuque  gravis,  reliquos  supereminet  omnes 
Mole  gigantea,  mediamque  exsurgit  in  ulnam." 

The  Latin  poems  of  Addison  were  greatly  and 
justly  admired  both  at   Oxford  and    Cambridge,   30 


LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISOX       139 

before  his  name  had  ever  been  heard  by  the  wits 
who  thronged  the  coffee-houses  round  Drury-Lane 
Theatre.  In  his  twenty-second  year  he  ventured 
to  appear  before  the  public  as  a  writer  of  English 
5  verse.  He  addressed  some  complimentary  lines  to 
Drvden,  who,  after  many  triumphs  and  many 
reverses,  had  at  length  reached  a  secure  and  lonely 
eminence  among  the  literary  men  of  that  age. 
Drvden  appears  to  have  been  much  gratified  by  the 

10  young  scholar's  praise;  and  an  interchange  of 
civilities  and  good  offices  followed.  Addison  was 
probably  introduced  by  Dry  den  to  Congreve,  and 
was  certainly  presented  by  Congreve  to  Charles 
Montague,    who    was     then     Chancellor    of     the 

is  Exchequer,  and  leader  of  the  "Whig  party  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

At  this  time  Addison  seemed  inclined  to  devote 
himself  to  poetry.  He  published  a  translation  of 
part   of     the    fourth     Georgic,    Lines    to    King 

20  William,  and  other  performances  of  equal  value ; 
that  is  to  say,  of  no  value  at  all.  But  in  those 
days,  the  public  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  with 
applause  jneces  which  would  now  have  little  chance 
of  obtaining  the  Xewdigate  prize  or  the  Seatonian 

35  prize.  And  the  reason  is  obvious.  The  heroic 
couplet  was  then  the  favorite  measure.  The  art 
of  arranging  words  in  that  measure,  so  that  the 
lines  may  flow  smoothly,  that  the  accents  may  fall 
correctly,    that   the   rhymes    may   strike   the   ear 

.so  strongly,  and  that  there  may  be  a  pause  at  the  end' 


140  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

of  every  distich,  is  an  art  as  mechanical  as  that  of 
mending  a  kettle  or  shoeing  a  horse,  and  may  be 
learned  b}r  any  human  being  who  has  sense  enough 
to  learn  anything.  But,  like  other  mechanical 
arts,  it  was  gradually  improved  by  means  of  many  5 
experiments  and  many  failures.  It  was  reserved 
for  Pope  to  discover  the  trick,  to  make  himself 
complete  master  of  it,  and  to  teach  it  to  everybody 
else.  From  the  time  when  his  Pastorals  appeared, 
heroic  versification  became  matter  of  rule  and  com-  in 
pass ;  and,  before  long,  all  artists  were  on  a  level. 
Hundreds  of  dunces  who  never  blundered  on  one 
happy  thought  or  expression  were  able  to  write 
reams  of  couplets  which,  as  far  as  euphony  was 
concerned,  could  not  be  distinguished  from  those  is 
of  Pope  himself,  and  which  very  clever  writers  of 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second, — Rochester,  for 
Example,  or  Marvel,  or  Oldham, — would  have  con- 
templated with  admiring  despair. 

Ben  Jonson  was  a  great  man,  Hoole  a  very  20 
small  man.  But  Hoole,  coming  after  Pope,  had 
learned  how  to  manufacture  decasyllable  verses, 
and  poured  them  forth  by  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands,  all  as  well  turned,  as  smooth,  and  as 
like  each  other  as  the  blocks  which  have  passed  25 
through  Mr.  Brunei's  mill  in  the  dockyard  at 
Portsmouth.  Ben's  heroic  couplets  resemble 
blocks  rudely  hewn  out  by  an  unpractised  hand 
with  a  blunt  hatchet.  Take  as  a  specimen  his 
translation  of  a  celebrated  passage  in  the  ^Eneid : —  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       141 

"This  child  our  parent  earth,  stirred  up  with  spite 
Of  all  the  gods,  brought  forth,  and,  as  some  write, 
She  was  last  sister  of  that  giant  race 
That  sought  to  scale  Jove's  court,  right  swift  of  pace, 
5      And  swifter  far  of  wing,  a  monster  vast 

And  dreadful.     Look,  how  many  plumes  are  placed 
On  her  huge  corpse,  so  many  waking  eyes 
Stick  underneath,  and,  which  may  stranger  rise 
In  the  report,  as  many  tongues  she  wears." 

10  Compare  with  these  jagged  misshapen  distichs 
the  neat  fabric  which  Hoole's  machine  produces  in 
unlimited  abundance.  We  take  the  first  lines  on 
which  we  open  in  his  version  of  Tasso.  They  are 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  rest : — 

15  "O  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  whose  steps  are  led, 

By  choice  or  fate,  these  lonely  shores  to  tread, 
No  greater  wonders  east  or  west  can  boast 
Than  yon  small  island  on  the  pleasing  coast. 
If  e'er  thy  sight  would  blissful  scenes  explore, 

20  The  current  pass,  and  seek  the  further  shore." 

Ever  since  the  time  of  Pope  there  has  been  a 
glut  of  lines  of  this  sort;  and  we  are  now  as  little 
disposed  to  admire  a  man  for  being  able  to  write 
them,  as  for  being  able  to  write  his  name.     But  in 

2o  the  days  of  William  the  Third  such  versification 
was  rare;  and  a  rhymer  who  had  any  skill  in  it 
passed  for  a  great  poet,  just  as  in  the  dark  ages  a 
person  who  could  write  his  name  passed  for  a  great 
clerk.     Accordingly,     Duke,    Stepney,    Granville, 

30  Walsh,  and  others  whose  only  title  to  fame  was 


142  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

that  they  said  in  tolerable  metre  what  might  have 
been  as  well  said  in  prose,  or  what  was  not  worth 
saying  at  all,  were  honored  with  marks  of  distinc- 
tion which  ought  to  be  reserved  for  genius.  With 
these  Addison  must  have  ranked,  if  he  had  not  5 
earned  true  and  lasting  glory  by  performances 
which  very  little  resembled  his  juvenile  poems. 

Dry  den  was  now  busied  with  Virgil,  and  ob- 
tained from  Addison  a  critical  preface  to  the 
Georgics.  In  return  for  this  service,  and  for  10 
other  services  of  the  same  kind,  the  veteran  poet, 
in  the  postscript  to  the  translation  of  the  iEneid, 
complimented  his  young  friend  with  great  liber- 
ality, and  indeed  with  more  liberality  than  sin- 
cerity. He  affected  to  be  afraid  that  his  own  15 
performance  would  not  sustain  a  comparison  with 
the  version  of  the  fourth  Georgic,  by  "the  most 
ingenious  Mr.  Addison  of  Oxford."  "After  his 
bees,"  added  Dryden,  "my  latter  swarm  is  scarcely 
worth  the  hiving. "  20 

The  time  had  now  arrived  when  it  was  necessary 
for  Addison  to  choose  a  calling.  Everything 
seemed  to  point  his  course  towards  the  clerical  pro- 
fession. His  habits  were  regular,  his  opinions 
orthodox.  His  college  had  large  ecclesiastical  25 
preferment  in  its  gift,  and  boasts  that  it  has  given 
at  least  one  bishop  to  almost  every  see  in  England. 
Dr.  Lancelot  Addison  held  an  honorable  place  in 
the  church,  and  had  set  his  heart  on  se*eing  his 
son  a  clergyman.    It  is  clear,  from  some  expressions  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      143 

in  the  young  man's  rhymes,  that  his  infcemiun  was 
to  take  orders.  But  Charles  Montague  interfered. 
Montague  had  first  brought  himself  into  notice  by 
verses,  well-timed  and  not   contemptibly  written, 

5  but  never,  we  think,  rising  above  mediocrity. 
Fortunately  for  himself  and  for  his  country,  he 
early  quitted  poetry,  in  which  he  could  never  have 
attained  a  rank  as  high  as  that  of  Dorset  or  Roch- 
ester, and   turned   his   mind   to  official  and  par- 

10  liamentary  business.  It  is  written  that  the 
ingenious  person  who  undertook  to  instruct 
Rasselas,  prince  of  Abyssinia,  in  the  art  of  flying, 
ascended  an  eminence,  waved  his  wings,  sprang 
into  the  air,  and  instantly  dropped  into  the  lake. 

15  But  it  is  added  that  the  wings,  which  were  unable 
to  support  him  through  the  sky,  bore  him  up 
effectually  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  water.  This 
is  no  bad  type  of  the  fate  of  Charles  Montague, 
and  of  men  like  him.     When  he  attempted  to  soar 

20  into  the  regions  of  poetical  invention,  he  alto- 
gether failed;  but,  as  soon  as  he  had  descended 
from  that  ethereal  elevation  into  a  lower  and 
grosser  element,  his  talents  instantly  raised  him 
above  the  mass.     He  became  a  distinguished  finan- 

25  cier,  debater,  courtier,  and  party  leader.  He  still 
retained  his  fondness  for  the  pursuits  of  his  early 
days ;  but  he  showed  that  fondness  not  by  wearying 
the  public  with  his  own  feeble  performances,  but 
by  discovering  and  encouraging  literary  excellence- 

30  in  others.     A  crowd  of  wits  and  poets,  who  would 


144  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

easily  have  vanquished  him  as  a  competitor, 
revered  him  as  a  judge  and  a  patron.  In  his  plans 
for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  he  was  cor- 
dially supported  by  the  ablest  and  most  virtuous 
of  his  colleagues,  the  Lord  Chancellor  Somers.  5 
Though  both  these  great  statesmen  had  a  sincere 
love  of  letters,  it  was  not  solely  from  a  love  of 
letters  that  they  were  desirous  to  enlist  youths  of 
high  intellectual  qualifications  in  the  public  serv- 
ice. The  Revolution  had  altered  the  whole  sys-  10 
tern  of  government.  Before  that  event  the  press 
had  been  controlled  by  censors,  and  the  parliament 
had  sat  only  two  months  in  eight  years.  Now  the 
press  was  free,  and  had  begun  to  exercise  unprece- 
dented influence  on  the  public  mind.  Parliament  15 
met  annually,  and  sat  long.  The  chief  power  in 
the  state  had  passed  to  the  House  of  Commons. 
At  such  a  conjuncture,  it  was  natural  that  literary 
and  oratorical  talents  should  rise  in  value*  There 
was  danger  that  a  government  which  neglected  20 
such  talents  might  be  subverted  by  them.  It  was, 
therefore,  a  profound  and  enlightened  policy  which 
led  Montague  and  Somers  to  attach  such  talents  to 
the  Whig  party,  by  the  strongest  ties  both  of  inter- 
est and  of  gratitude.  25 
"  It  is  remarkable  that,  in  a  neighboring  country, 
we  have  recently  seen  similar  effects  follow  from 
similar  causes.  The  Revolution  of  July  1830 
established  representative  government  in  France. 
The  men  of  letters  instantly  rose  to  the  highest  im-  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       U5 

portance  in  the  state.  At  the  present  moment 
most  of  the  persons  whom  we  see  at  the  head  both 
of  the  Administration  and  of  the  Opposition,  have 
been  professors,  historians,  journalists,  poets.     The 

5  influence  of  the  literary  class  in  England,  during 
the  generation  which  followed  the  Revolution,  was 
great,  but  by  no  means  so  great  as  it  has  lately 
been  in  France.  For,  in  England,  the  aristocracy 
of  intellect  had  to  contend  with  a  powerful  and 

10  deeply  rooted  aristocracy  of  a  very  different  kind. 
France  had  no  Somersets  and  Shrewsburies  to  keep 
down  her  Addisons  and  Priors.  w 

It  was  in  the  year  1699,  when  Addison  had  just 
completed  his  twenty -seventh  year,  that  the  course 

*-5  of  his  life  was  finally  determined.  Both  the  great 
chiefs  of  the  Ministry  were  kindly  disposed 
towards  him.  In  political  opinions  he  already 
was,  what  he  continued  to  be  through  life,  a  firm, 
though  a  moderate  Whig.     He  had  addressed  the 

20  most  polished  and  vigorous  of  his  early  English 
lines  to  Somers,  and  had  dedicated  to  Montague  a 
Latin  poem,  truly  Yirgilian,  both  in  style  and 
rhythm,  on  the  peace  of  Ryswick.  The  wish  of 
the  young  poet's  great  friends  was,  it  should  seem, 

25  to  employ  him  in  the  service  of  the  crown  abioad. 
But  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  French  language 
was  a  qualification  indispensable  to  a  diplomatist; 
and  tbi  qualification  Addison  had  not  acquired. 
It  was,  tin  refoie,  thought  desirable  that  he  should 

30  pass  some  time  on  the  Continent  in  preparing  him- 


146  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

self  for  official  employment.  His  own  means  were 
not  such  as  would  enable  him  to  travel ;  but  a  pen- 
sion of  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  was  procured 
for  him  by  the  interest  of  the  Lord  Chancellor. 
It  seems  to  have  been  apprehended  that  some  diffi-  5 
culty  might  be  started  by  the  rulers  of  Magdalene 
College.  But  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
wrote  in  the  strongest  terms  to  Hough.  The  state 
— such  was  the  purport  of  Montague's  letter — 
could  not,  at  that  time,  spare  to  the  church  such  10 
a  man  as  Addison.  ( Too  many  high  civil  posts 
were  already  occupied  by  adventurers,  who,  desti- 
tute of  every  liberal  art  and  sentiment,  at  once 
pillaged  and  disgraced  the  country  which  they  pre- 
tended to  serve.  It  had  become  necessary  to  15 
recruit  for  the  public  service  from  a  very  different 
class,  from  that  class  of  which  Addison  was  the 
representative.  The  close  of  the  Minister's  letter 
was  remarkable.  "I  am  called,"  he  said,  "an 
enemy  of  the  church.  But  I  will  never  do  it  any  20 
other  injury  than  keeping  Mr.  Addison  out  of  it." 
This  interference  was  successful;  and,  in  the 
summer  of  1699,  Addison,  made  a  rich  man  by  his 
pension,  and  still  retaining  his  fellowship,  quitted 
his  beloved  Oxford,  and  set  out  on  his  travels.  He  25 
crossed  from  Dover  to  Calais,  proceeded  to  Paris, 
and  was  received  there  with  great  kindness  and 
politeness  by  a  kinsman  of  his  friend  Montague, 
Charles  Earl  of  Manchester,  who  had  just  been 
appointed  Ambassador  to    the    Court   of   France.   30 


LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       147 

The  countess,  a  Whig  and  a  toast,  was  probably  as 
gracious  as  her  lord ;  for  Addison  long  retained  an 
agreeable  recollection  of  the  impression  which  she 
at  this  time  made  on   him,  and,   in  some  lively 

5  lines  written  on  the  glasses  of  the  Kit  Cat  Club, 
described  the  envy  which  her  cheeks,  glowing  with 
the  genuine  bloom  of  England,  had  excited  among 
the  painted  beauties  of  Versailles. 

Louis  the  Fourteenth  was  at  this  time  expiating 

10  the  vices  of  his  youth  by  a  devotion  which  had  no 
root  in  reason,  and  bore  no  fruit  of  charity.  The 
servile  literature  of  France  had  changed  its  charac- 
ter to  suit  the  changed  character  of  the  prince. 
No  book  appeared  that  had  not  an  air  of  sanctity. 

is  Racine,  who  was  just  dead,  had  passed  the  close  of 
his  life  in  writing  sacred  dramas ;  and  Dacier  was 
seeking  for  the  Athanasian  mysteries  in  Plato. 
Addison  described  this  state  of  things  in  a  short 
but    lively    and    graceful     letter    to     Montague. 

20  Another  letter,  written  about  the  same  time  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  conveyed  the  strongest  assurances 
of  gratitude  and  attachment.  "The  only  return  I 
can  make  to  your  Lordship,"  said  Addison,  "will 
be    to    apply  myself    entirely   to    my  business." 

25  With  this  view  he  quitted  Paris  and  repaired  to 
Blois,  a  place  where  it  was  supposed  that  the 
French  language  was  spoken  in  its  highest  purity, 
and  where  not  a  single  Englishman  could  be 
found.     Here  he  passed  some   months  pleasantly 

30  and  profitably.     Of  his  way  of  life  at  Blois,  one  of 


148  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

his  associates,  an  abbe  named  Philippeaux,  gave  an 
account  to  Joseph  Spence.  If  this  account  is  to 
he  trusted,  Addison  studied  much,  mused  much, 
talked  little,  had  fits  of  absence,  and  either  had  no 
love  affairs,  or  was  too  discreet  to  confide  them  to  5 
the  abbe.  A  man  who,  even  when  surrounded  by 
fellow-countrymen  and  fellow-students,  had  always 
been  remarkably  shy  and  silent,  was  not  likely  to 
be  loquacious  in  a  foreign  tongue,  and  among  for- 
eign companions.  But  it  is  clear  from  Addison's  10 
letters,  some  of  which  were  long  after  published  in 
the  Guardian,  that,  while  he  appeared  to  be  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  meditations,  he  was  really 
observing  French  society  with  that  keen  and  sly, 
yet  not  ill-natured  side-glance,  which  was  pecul-  is 
iarly  his  own. 

From  Blois  he  returned  to  Paris;  and,  having 
now  mastered  the  French  language,  found  great 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  French  philosophers  and 
poets.  He  gave  an  account  in  a  letter  to  Bishop  2c 
Hough,  of  two  highly  interesting  conversations, 
<one  with  Malebranche,  the  other  with  Boileau. 
Malebranche  expressed  great  partiality  for  the  Eng- 
lish, and  extolled  the  genius  of  Newton,  but  shook 
his  head  when  Hobbes  was  mentioned,  and  was  25 
indeed  so  unjust  as  to  call  the  author  of  the 
Leviathan  a  poor  silly  creature.  Addison's  mod- 
esty restrained  him  from  fully  relating,  in  his 
letter,  the  circumstances  of  his  introduction  to 
Boileau.     Boileau,  having    survived    the    friends  m 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      149 

Mid  rivals  of  his  youth,  old,  deaf,  and  melancholy, 
lived  in  retirement,  seldom  went  either  to  Court  or 
to  the  Academy,  and  was  almost  inaccessible  to 
strangers.     Of  the  English  and  of  English  liter- 

5  ature  he  knew  nothing.  He  had  hardly  heard  the 
name  of  Dryden.  Some  of  our  countrymen,  in  the 
warmth  of  their  patriotism,  have  asserted  that  this 
ignorance  must  have  been  affected.  We  own  that 
we  see  no  ground  for  such  a  supposition.     English 

10  literature  was  to  the  French  of  the  age  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth  what  German  literature  was  to  our 
own  grandfathers.  Very  few,  we  suspect,  of  the  ac- 
complished men  who,  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago, 
used  to  dine  in  Leicester  Square  with  Sir  Joshua, 

15  or  at  Streatham  with  Mrs.  Thrale,  had  the  slight- 
est notion  that  TVieland  was  one  of  the  first  wits 
and  poets,  and  Lessing,  beyond  all  dispute,  the 
first  critic  in  Europe.  Boileau  knew  just  as  little 
about  the  Paradise  Lost  and  about  Absalom  and 

20  Achitophel;  but  he  had  read  Addison's  Latin 
poems,  and  admired  them  greatly.  They  had 
given  him,  he  said,  quite  a  new  notion  of  the  state 
of  learning  and  taste  among  the  English.  John- 
son will  have  it  that  these  praises  were  insincere. 

25  "Nothing,"  says  he,  "is  better  known  of  Boileau 
than  that  he  had  an  injudicious  and  peevish  con- 
tempt of  modern  Latin ;  and  therefore  his  profes- 
sion of  regard  was  probably  the  effect  of  his  civility 
rather  than  approbation."     Now,  nothing  is  bettei 

30  known  of  Boileau    than  that    he  was   singularly 


150  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

sparing  of  compliments.  We  do  not  remember 
that  either  friendship  or  fear  ever  induced  him  to 
bestow  praise  on  any  composition  which  he  did  not 
approve.  On  literary  questions,  his  caustic,  dis- 
dainful, and  self-confident  spirit  rebelled  against  5 
that  authority  to  which  everything  else  in  France 
bowed  down.  He  had  the  spirit  to  tell  Louis  the 
Fourteenth  firmly  and  even  rudely,  that  his  maj- 
esty knew  nothing  about  poetry,  and  admired 
verses  which  were  detestable.  What  was  there  in  i° 
Addison's  position  that  could  induce  the  satirist, 
whose  stern  and  fastidious  temper  had  been  the 
dread  of  two  generations,  to  turn  sycophant  for  the 
first  and  last  time?  Nor  was  Boileau's  Contempt 
of  modern  Latin  either  injudicious  or  peevish.  15 
He  thought,  indeed,  that  no  poem  of  the  first 
order  would  ever  be  written  in  a  dead  language. 
And  did  he  think  amiss?  Has  not  the  experience 
of  centuries  confirmed  his  opinion?  Boileau  also 
thought  it  probable  that,  in  the  best  modern  20 
Latin,  a  writer  of  the  Augustan  age  would  have 
detected  ludicrous  improprieties.  And  who  can 
think  otherwise?  What  modern  scholar  can 
honestly  declare  that  he  sees  the  smallest  impurity 
in  the  style  of  Livy?  Yet  is  it  not  certain  that,  25 
in  the  style  of  Livy,  Pollio,  whose  taste  had  been 
formed  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  detected  the 
inelegant  idiom  of  the  Po?  Has  any  modern 
scholar  understood  Latin  better  than  Frederic  the 
Great  understood  French?     Yet  is  it  not  notorious   38 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       151 

that  Frederic  the  Great,  after  reading,  speaking, 
writing  French,  and  nothing  but  French,  during 
more  than  half  a  century,  after  unlearning  his 
mother  tongue  in  order  to  learn  French,  after  liv- 

5  ing  familiarly  during  many  years  with  French 
associates,  could  not,  to  the  last,  compose  in 
French,  without  imminent  risk  of  committing 
some  mistake  which  would  have  moved  a  smile  in 
the  literary  circles  of  Paris?     Do  we  believe  that 

10  Erasmus  and  Fracastorius  wrote  Latin  as  well  as 
Dr.  Robertson  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  wrote  Eng- 
lish? And  are  there  not  in  the  Dissertation  on  In- 
dia, the  last  of  Dr.  Robertson's  works,  inWaverley, 
in    Marmion,    Scotticisms    at    which    a    London 

15  ajDprentice  would  laugh?  But  does  it  follow, 
because  we  think  thus,  that  we  can  find  nothing  to 
admire  in  the  noble  alcaics  of  Gray,  or  in  the  play- 
ful elegiacs  of  Vincent  Bourne?  Surely  not.  Xor 
was  Boileau  so  ignorant  or  tasteless  as  to  be  incapa- 

20  ble  of  appreciating  good  modern  Latin.  In  the 
very  letter  to  which  Johnson  alludes,  Boileau  says, 
"Xe  croyez  pas  pourtant  que  je  veuille  par  la 
bl amer  les  vers  Latins  que  vous  m'avez  envoy es 
d'un    de    vos    illustres    academiciens.     Je    les    ai 

25  trouves  fort  beaux,  et  dignes  de  Vida  et  de  San- 
nazar,  mais  non  pas  d'Horace  et  de  Virgile." 
Several  poems  in  modern  Latin  have  been  praised 
by  Boileau  quite  as  liberally  as  it  was  his  habit  to 
praise  anything.     He  says,   for   example,    of    the 

30   Pure   Fraguier's  epigrams,  that  Catullus  seems  to 


152  MAC  AULA  Y'S   ESSAYS 

have  come  to  life  again.  But  the  best  proof  that 
Boileau  did  not  feel  the  undiscerning  contempt  for 
modern  Latin  verses  which  has  been  imputed  to 
him,  is  that  he  wrote  and  published  Latin  verses 
in  several  metres.  Indeed,  it  happens,  curiously  5 
enough,  that  the  most  severe  censure  ever  pro- 
nounced by  him  on  modern  Latin  is  conveyed  in 
Latin  hexameters.  We  allude  to  the  fragment 
which  begins : — 

"Quid  numeris  iterum  me  balbutire  Latinis,  10 

Longe  Alpes  citra  natum  de  patre  Sicambro, 
Musa,  jubes?" 

For  these  reasons  we  feel  assured  that  the  praise 
which  Boileau  bestowed  on  the  Machince  Gesticul- 
antes,  and  the  Germio-Pygmceomachia,  was  15 
sincere.  He  certainly  opened  himself  to  Addison 
with  a  freedom  which  was  a  sure  indication  of 
esteem.  Literature  was  the  chief  subject  of  con- 
versation. The  old  man  talked  on  his  favorite 
theme  much  and  well,  —  indeed,  as  his  young  20 
hearer  thought,  incomparably  well.  Boileau  had 
undoubtedly  some  of  the  qualities  of  a  great  critic. 
He  wanted  imagination ;  but  he  had  strong  sense. 
His  literary  code  was  formed  on  narrow  principles ; 
but  in  applying  it  he  showed  great  judgment  and  25 
penetration.  In  mere  style,  abstracted  from  the 
ideas  of  which  style  is  the  garb,  his  taste  was 
excellent.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  great 
Greek  writers,  and,  though  unable  fully  to  appreci- 
ate  their   creative   genius,   admired   the   majestic  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      153 

simplicity  of  their  maimer,  and  had  learned  from 
them  to  despise  bombast  and  tinsel.  It  is  easy,  we 
think,  to  discover  in  the  Spectator  and  the  Guard- 
ian traces  of  the  influence,  in  part  salutary  and 

5  in  part  pernicious,  which  the  mind  of  Boileau  had 
on  the  mind  of  Addison. 

While  Addison  was  at  Paris,  an  event  took 
place  which  made  that  capital  a  disagreeable 
residence    for     an     Englishman     and     a     Whig. 

10  Charles,  second  of  the  name,  King  of  Spain,  died, 
and  bequeathed  his  dominions  to  Philip,  Duke  of 
Anjou,  a  younger  son  of  the  Dauphin.  The  King 
of  France,  in  direct  violation  of  his  engagements, 
both   with    Great    Britain   and   with   the    States 

15  General,  accepted  the  bequest  on  behalf  of  his 
grandson.  The  house  of  Bourbon  was  at  the  sum- 
mit of  human  grandeur.  England  had  been  out- 
witted, and  found  herself  in  a  situation  at  once 
degrading  and  perilous.     The  people  of    France, 

20  not  presaging  the  calamities  by  which  they  were 
destined  to  expiate  the  perfidy  of  their  sovereign, 
went  mad  with  pride  and  delight.  Every  man 
looked  as  if  a  great  estate  had  just  been  left  him. 
"The  French  conversation,"  said  Addison,  "begins 

25  to  grow  insupportable ;  that  which  was  before  the 
vainest  nation  in  the  world,  is  now  worse  than 
ever."  Sick  of  the  arrogant  exultation  of  the 
Parisians,  and  probably  foreseeing  that  the  peace 
between  France  and  England  could  not  be  of  long 

30  duration,  he  set  off  for  Italy. 


154  MAC  AULA  Y'S   ESSAYS 

In  December,  1700,  he  embarked  at  Marseilles. 
As  he  glided  along  the  Lignrian  coast,  he  was 
delighted  by  the  sight  of  myrtles  and  olive-trees, 
which  retained  their  verdure  under  the  winter 
-solstice.  Soon,  however,  he  encountered  one  of  5 
the  black  storms  of  the  Mediterranean.  The 
captain  of  the  ship  gave  up  all  for  lost,  and  con- 
fessed himself  to  a  capuchin  who  happened  to  be 
on  board.  The  English  heretic,  in  the  meantime, 
fortified  himself  against  the  terrors  of  death  with  10 
devotions  of  a  very  different  kind.  How  strong  an 
impression  this  perilous  voyage  made  on  him 
appears  from  the  ode,  "How  are  thy  servants 
blest,  0  Lord!"  which  was  long  after  published  in 
the  Spectator.  After  some  days  of  discomfort  and  15 
clanger,  Addison  was  glad  to  land  at  Savona,  and 
to  make  his  way,  over  mountains  where  no  road 
had  yet  been  hewn  out  by  art,  to  the  city  of 
Genoa. 

At  Genoa,  still  ruled  by  her  own  doge,  and  by  20 
the  nobles  whose  names  were  inscribed  on  her 
Book  of  Gold,  Addison  made  a  short  stay.  He 
admired  the  narrow  streets  overhung  by  long  lines 
of  towering  palaces,  the  walls  rich  with  frescoes, 
the  gorgeous  temple  of  the  Annunciation,  and  the  25 
tapestries  whereon  were  recorded  the  long  glories 
of  the  house  of  Doria.  Thence  he  hastened  to 
Milan,  where  he  contemplated  the  Gothic  magnifi- 
cence of  the  cathedral  with  more  wonder  than 
pleasure.     He  passed  Lake  Benacus  while  a  gale  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      155 

was  blowing,  and  saw  the  waves  raging  as  they 
raged  when  Virgil  looked  upon  them.  At  Venice, 
then  the  gayest  spot  in  Europe,  the  traveller  spent 
the  Carnival,  the  gayest  season  of  the  year,  in  the 

5  midst  of  masks,  dances,  and  serenades.  Here  he 
was  at  once  diverted  and  provoked  by  the  absurd 
dramatic  pieces  which  then  disgraced  the  Italian 
stage.  To  one  of  those  pieces,  however,  he  was 
indebted   for   a   valuable    hint.     He   was   present 

10  when  a  ridiculous  play  on  the  death  of  Cato  was 
performed.  Cato,  it  seems,  was  in  love  with  a 
daughter  of  Scipio.  The  lady  had  given  her  heart 
to  Caesar.  The  rejected  lover  determined  to  de- 
stroy himself.    He  appeared  seated  in  his  library,  a 

15  dagger  in  his  hand,  a  Plutarch  and  a  Tasso  before 
him;  and,  in  this  position,  he  pronounced  a 
soliloquy  before  he  struck  the  blow.  We  are  sur- 
prised that  so  remarkable  a  circumstance  as  this 
should  have  escaped  the  notice  of  all  Addison's 

20  biographers.  There  cannot,  we  conceive,  be  the 
smallest  doubt  that  this  scene,  in  spite  of  its  ab- 
surdities and  anachronisms,  struck  the  traveller's 
imagination,  and  suggested  to  him  the  thought  of 
bringing   Cato  on  the  English  stage.     It  is  well 

25  known  that  about  this  time  he  began  his  tragedy, 
and  that  he  finished  the  first  four  acts  before  he 
returned  to  England. 

On  his  way  from  Venice  to  Rome,  he  was  drawn 
some  miles  out  of  the  beaten  road  by  a  wish  to  see 

30  the  smallest  independent  state  in  Europe.     On  a 


^     nf   t 


150  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

rock  where  the  snow  still  lay,  though  the  Italian 
spring  was  now  far  advanced,  was  perched  the 
little  fortress  of  San  Marino.  The  roads  which 
led  to  the  secluded  town  were  so  bad  that  few 
travellers  had  ever  visited  it,  and  none  had  ever  5 
published  an  account  of  it.  Addison  could  not 
suppress  a  good-natured  smile  at  the  simple  man- 
ners and  institutions  of  this  singular  community. 
But  he  observed,  with  the  exultation  of  a  "Whig, 
that  the  rude  mountain  tract  which  formed  the  10 
territory  of  the  republic  swarmed  with  an  honest, 
healthy,  and  contented  peasantry,  while  the  rich 
plain  which  surrounded  the  metropolis  of  civil  and 
spiritual  tyranny  was  scarcely  less  desolate  than 
the  uncleared  wilds  of  America.  15 

At  Eome  Addison  remained  on  his  first  visit  only 
long  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  St.  Peter's  and 
of  the  Pantheon.  His  haste  is  the  more  extra- 
ordinary because  the  Holy  Week  was  close  at  hand. 
He  has  given  no  hint  which  can  enable  us  to  pro-  20 
nounce  why  he  chose  to  fly  from  a  spectacle  which 
every  year  allures  from  distant  regions  persons  of 
far  less  taste  and  sensibility  than  his.  Possibly, 
travelling,  as  he  did,  at  the  charge  of  a  government 
distinguished  by  its  enmity  to  the  Church  of  25 
Rome,  he  may  have  thought  that  it  would  be  im- 
prudent in  him  to  assist  at  the  most  magnificent 
rite  of  that  church.  Many  eyes  would  be  upon 
him,  and  he  might  find  it  difficult  to  behave  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  give  oft'ence  neither  to  his  30 


LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      15? 

patrons  in  England,  nor  to  those  among  whom  he 
resided.  Whatever  his  motives  may  have  been,  he 
turned  his  back  on  the  most  august  and  affecting 
ceremony  which  is  known  among  men,  and  posted 

5  along  the  Appian  way  to  Xaples. 

Xaples  was  then  destitute  of  what  are  now,  per- 
haps, its  chief  attractions.  The  lovely  bay  and  the 
awful  mountain  were  indeed  there;  but  a  farm- 
house stood  on  the  theatre  of  Herculaneum,  and 

10  rows  of  vines  grew  over  the  streets  of  Pompeii. 
The  temples  of  Psestum  had  not  indeed  been  hid- 
den from  the  eye  of  man  by  any  great  convulsion 
of  nature;  but,  strange  to  say,  their  existence  was 
a  secret  even  to  artists  and  antiquaries.     Though 

15  situated  within  a  few  hours'  journey  of  a  great 
capital,  where  Salvator  had  not  long  before 
painted,  and  where  Vico  was  then  lecturing,  those 
noble  remains  were  as  little  known  to  Europe  as 
the  ruined  cities  overgrown  by  the  forests  of  Yuca- 

20  tan.  What  was  to  be  seen  at  ^Naples  Addison  saw. 
He  climbed  Vesuvius,  explored  the  tunnel  of 
Posilipo,  and  wandered  among  the  vines  and 
almond-trees  of  Capreae.  But  neither  the  wonders 
of  nature,  nor  those  of  art,  could  so  occupy  his 

25  attention  as  to  prevent  him  from  noticing,  though 
cursorily,  the  abuses  of  the  government  and  the 
misery  of  the  people.  The  great  kingdom  which 
had  just  descended  to  Philip  the  Fifth,  was  in  a 
state  of  paralytic  dotage.     Even  Castile  and  Ara- 

30  gon  were  sunk  in  wretchedness.     Yet,  compared 


158  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

with  the  Italian  dependencies  of  the  Spanish 
crown,  Castile  and  Aragon  might  be  called  pros- 
perous. It  is  clear  that  all  the  observations  which 
Addison  made  in  Italy  tended  to  confirm  him  in 
the  political  opinions  which  he  had  adopted  at  5 
home.  To  the  last  he  always  spoke  of  foreign 
travel  as  the  best  cure  for  Jacobitism.  In  his 
Freeholder  the  Tory  fox-hunter  asks  what  travel- 
ling is  good  for,  except  to  teach  a  man  to  jabber 
French  and  to  talk  against  passive  obedience.  10 

From  Naples,  Addison  returned  to  Rome  by  sea, 
along  the  coast  which  his  favorite  Virgil  had  cele- 
brated. The  felucca  passed  the  headland  where 
the  oar  and  trumpet  were  placed  by  the  Trojan 
adventurers  on  the  tomb  of  Misenus,  and  anchored  15 
at  night  under  the  shelter  of  the  fabled  promontory 
of  Circe.  The  voyage  ended  in  the  Tiber,  still 
overhung  with  dark  verdure,  and  still  turbid  with 
yellow  sand,  as  when  it  met  the  eyes  of  ^Eneas. 
From  the  ruined  port  of  Ostia,  the  stranger  hur-  20 
ried  to  Rome ;  and  at  Rome  he  remained  during 
those  hot  and  sickly  months,  when,  even  in  the 
Augustan  age,  all  who  could  make  their  escape  fled 
from  mad  dogs  and  from  streets  black  with  funer- 
als, to  gather  the  first  figs  of  the  season  in  the  25 
country.  It  is  probable  that,  when  he,  long  after, 
poured  forth  in  verse  his  gratitude  to  the  Provi- 
dence which  had  enabled  him  to  breathe  unhurt 
in  tainted  air,  he  was  thinking  of  the  August  and 
September  which  he  passed  at  Rome.  20 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      159 
N 

It  was  not  till  the  latter  end  of  October  that  he 
tore  himself  away  from  the  masterpieces  of  ancient 
and  modern  art  which  are  collected  in  the  city  so 
long  the  mistress  of  the  world.     He  then  journeyed 

5  northward,  passed  through  Sienna,  and  for  a 
moment  forgot  his  prejudices  in  favor  of  classic 
architecture  as  he  looked  on  the  magnificent 
cathedral.  At  Florence  he  spent  some  days  with 
the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,   who,   cloyed  with  the 

10  pleasures  of  ambition,  and  impatient  of  its'  pains, 
fearing  both  parties,  and  loving  neither,  had  deter- 
mined to  hide  in  an  Italian  retreat  talents  and 
accomplishments  which,  if  they  had  been  united 
with  fixed  principles  and  civil  courage,  might  have 

15  made  him  the  foremost  man  of  his  age.  These 
days,  we  are  told,  passed  pleasantly;  and  we  can 
easily  believe  it.  For  Addison  was  a  delightful 
companion  when  he  was  at  his  ease ;  and  the  duke, 
though  he  seldom  forgot  that  he  was  a  Talbot,  had 

20  the  invaluable  art  of  putting  at  ease  all  who  came 
near  him. 

Addison  gave  some  time  to  Florence,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  sculptures  in  the  Museum,  which  he 
preferred  even  to  those  of  the  Vatican.     He  then 

25  pursued  his  journey  through  a  country  in  which 
the  ravages  of  the  last  war  were  still  discernible, 
and  in  which  all  men  were  looking  forward  with 
dread  to  a  still  fiercer  conflict.  Eugene  had 
already  descended  from  the  Rhaetian  Alps,  to  dis- 

30  pute  with  Catinat   the   rich  plain  of   Lombardy. 


160  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

The  faithless  ruler  of  Savoy  was  still  reckoned 
among  the  allies  of  Louis.  England  had  not  yet 
actually  declared  war  against  France:  but  Man- 
chester had  left  Paris ;  and  the  negotiations  which 
produced  the  Grand  Alliance  against  the  house  of  5 
Bourbon  were  in  progress.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, it  was  desirable  for  an  English  traveller  to 
reach  neutral  ground  without  delay.  Addison 
resolved  to  cross  Mont  Cenis.  It  was  December; 
and  the  road  was  very  different  from  that  which  10 
now  reminds  the  stranger  of  the  power  and  genius 
of  Napoleon.  The  winter,  however,  was  mild; 
and  the  passage  was,  for  those  times,  easy.  To 
this  journey  Addison  alluded  when,  in  the  ode 
which  we  have  already  quoted,  he  said  that  for  15 
him  the  Divine  goodness  had  warmed  the  hoary 
Alpine  hills. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  eternal  snow  that  he 
composed  his  Epistle  to  his  friend  Montague,  now 
Lord  Halifax.  That  Epistle,  once  widely  re-  20 
nowned,  is  now  known  only  to  curious  readers,  and 
will  hardly  be  considered  by  those  to  whom  it  is 
known  as  in  any  perceptible  degree  heightening 
Addison's  fame.  It  is,  however,  decidedly  superior 
to  any  English  composition  which  he  had  previously  25 
published.  Nay,  we  think  it  quite  as  good  as  any 
poem  in  heroic  metre  which  appeared  during  the 
interval  between  the  death  of  Dryden  and  the 
publication  of  the  Essay  on  Criticism.  It  con- 
tains passages  as  good  as  the  second-rate  passages   bo 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       161 

of  Pope,  and  would  have  added  to  the  reputation 
of  Parnell  or  Prior. 

But,  whatever  be  the  literary  merits  or  defects  of 
the  Epistle,  it  undoubtedly  does  honor  to  the  prin- 

5  ciples  and  spirit  of  the  author.  Halifax  had  now 
nothing  to  give.  He  had  fallen  from  power,  had 
been  held  up  to  obloquy,  had  been  impeached  by 
the  House  of  Commons,  and,  though  his  peers  had 
dismissed   the  impeachment,   had,   as   it   seemed, 

10  little  chance  of  ever  again  filling  high  office.  The 
Epistle,  written  at  such  a  time,  is  one  among  many 
proofs  that  there  was  no  mixture  of  cowardice  or 
meanness  in  the  suavity  and  moderation  which  dis- 
tinguished Addison  from  all  the  other  public  men 

15  of  those  stormy  times. 

At  Geneva,  the  traveller  learned  that  a  partial 
change  of  ministry  had  taken  place  in  England,  and 
that  the  Earl  of  Manchester  had  become  Secretary  of 
State.     Manchester   exerted  himself  to   serve   his 

20  young  friend.  It  was  thought  advisable  that  an 
English  agent  should  be  near  the  person  of  Eugene 
in  Italy ;  and  Addison,  whose  diplomatic  education 
was  now  finished,  was  the  man  selected.  He  was 
preparing   to   enter   on   his   honorable   functions, 

25  when  all  his  prospects  were  for  a  time  darkened  by 
the  death  of  "William  the  Third. 

Anne  had  long  felt  a  strong  aversion,  personal, 
political,  and  religious,  to  the  Whig  party.  That 
aversion   appeared   in    the   first    measures    of   her 

so  reign.     Manchester    was    deprived    of    the   seals, 


162  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

after  he  had  held  them  only  a  few  weeks.  Neither 
Somers  nor  Halifax  was  sworn  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil. Addison  shared  the  fate  of  his  three  patrons. 
His  hopes  of  employment  in  the  public  service 
were  at  an  end ;  his  pension  was  stopped ;  and  it  5 
was  necessary  for  him  to  support  himself  by  his 
own  exertions.  He  became  tutor  to  a  young  Eng- 
lish traveller,  and  appears  to  have  rambled  with 
his  pupil  over  great  part  of  Switzerland  and  Ger- 
many. At  this  time  he  wrote  his  pleasing  treatise  10 
on  Medals.  It  was  not  published  till  after  his 
death;  but  several  distinguished  scholars  saw  the 
manuscript,  and  gave  just  praise  to  the  grace  of  the 
style,  and  to  the  learning  and  ingenuity  erinced  by 
the  quotations.  15 

From  Germany,  Addison  repaired  to  Holland, 
where  he  learned  the  melancholy  news  of  his 
father's  death.  After  j)assing  some  months  in  the 
United  Provinces,  he  returned  about  the  close  of 
the  year  1703  to  England.  He  was  there  cordially  20 
received  by  his  friends,  and  introduced  by  them 
into  the  Kit  Cat  Club,  a  society  in  which  were  col- 
lected all  the  various  talents  and  accomplishments 
which  then  gave  lustre  to  the  Whig  party. 

Addison  was,  during  some  mouths  after  his  25 
return  from  the  Continent,  hard  pressed  by  pecun- 
iary difficulties.  But  it  was  soon  in  the  power  of 
his  noble  patrons  to  serve  him  effectually.  A 
political  change,  silent  and  gradual,  but  of  the 
highest  importance,   was  in  daily  progress.     The   so 


LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF    ADDISON 

accession  of  Anne  had  been  hailed  by  the  Tories 
with  transports  of  joy  and  hope ;  and  for  a  time  it 
seemed  that  the  Whigs  had  fallen  never  to  rise 
again.     The  throne  was  surrounded  by  men  sup- 

5  posed  to  be  attached  to  the  prerogative  and  to  the 

church ;  and  among  these  none  stood  so  high  in 

the  favor  of  the  sovereign  as  the  Lord -Treasurer 

Godolphin  and  the  Captain-General  Marlborough. 

The  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergymen 

10  had  fully  expected  that  the  policy  of  these  min- 
isters would  be  directly  opposed  to  that  which  had 
been  almost  constantly  followed  by  William;  that 
the  landed  interest  would  be  favored  at  the  expense 
of  trade;  that  no  additions  would  be  made  to  the 

is  funded  debt;  that  the  privileges  conceded  to 
Dissenters  by  the  late  king  would  be  curtailed,  if 
not  withdrawn ;  that  the  war  with  France,  if  there 
must  be  such  a  war,  would,  on  our  part,  be  almost 
entirely  naval;    and  that  the  government  would 

20  avoid  close  connections  with  foreign  powers,  and, 
above  all,  with  Holland. 

But  the  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergy- 
men were  fated  to  be  deceived,  not  for  the  last 
time.     The  prejudices  and  passions  which  raged 

25  without  control  in  vicarages,  in  cathedral  closes, 
and  in  the  manor-houses  of  fox-hunting  squires, 
were  not  shared  by  the  chiefs  of  the  ministry. 
Those  statesmen  saw  that  it  was  both  for  the  pub- 
lic interest,  and  for  their  own  interest,  to  adopt  a 

30  Whig  policy,  at  least  as  respected  the  alliances  of 


164  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

the  country  and  the  conduct  of  the  war.  Bat,  if 
the  foreign  policy  of  the  Whigs  were  adopted,  it 
was  impossible  to  abstain  from  adopting  also  their 
financial  policy.  The  natural  consequences  fol- 
lowed. The  rigid  Tories  were  alienated  from  the  5 
government.  The  votes  of  the  Whigs  became  nec- 
essary to  it.  The  votes  of  the  Whigs  could  be 
secured  only  by  further  concessions ;  and  further 
concessions  the  Queen  was  induced  to  make. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1 704,  the  state  of  10 
parties  bore  a  close  analogy  to  the  state  of  parties 
in  1826.  In  1826,  as  in  1704,  there  was  a  Tory 
ministry  divided  into  two  hostile  sections.  The 
position  of  Mr.  Canning  and  his  friends  in  1826 
corresponded  to  that  which  Marlborough  and  is 
Godolphin  occupied  in  1704.  Nottingham  and 
Jersey  were  in  1704  what  Lord  Eldon  and  Lord 
Westmoreland  were  in  1826.  The  Whigs  of  1704 
were  in  a  situation  resembling  that  in  which  the 
Whigs  of  1826  stood.  In  1704,  Somers,  Halifax,  20 
Sunderland,  Cowper,  were  not  in  office.  There 
was  no  avowed  coalition  between  them  and  the 
moderate  Tories.  It  is  probable  that  no  direct 
communication  tending  to  such  a  coalition  had 
yet  taken  place ;  yet  all  men  saw  that  such  a  coali-  25 
tion  was  inevitable,  nay,  that  it  was  already  half 
formed.  Such,  or  nearly  such,  was  the  state  of 
things  when  tidings  arrived  of  the  great  battle 
fought  at  Blenheim  on  the  13th  August,  1704. 
By  the  Whigs  the  news  was  hailed  with  transports  m 


LIFE    AXD    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       165 

of  joy  and  pride.  No  fault,  no  cause  of  quarrel, 
could  be  remembered  by  them  against  the  com- 
mander whose  genius  had,  in  one  day,  changed  the 
face  of  Europe,  saved  the  Imperial  throne,  hum- 
6  bled  the  house  of  Bourbon,  and  secured  the  Act  of 
Settlement  against  foreign  hostility.  The  feeling 
of  the  Tories  was  very  different.  They  could  not 
indeed,  without  imprudence,  openly  express  regret 
at  an  event  so  glorious  to  their  country ;  but  their 
io  congratulations  were  so  cold  and  sullen  as  to  give  deep 
disgust  to  the  victorious  general  and  his  friends. 

Godolphin  was  not  a  reading  man.     Whatever 
time  he  could  spare  from  business  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  spending  at  Xewmarket  or  at  the  card- 
is  table.     But  he  was   not  absolutely  indifferent  to 
poetry ;  and  he  was  too  intelligent  an  observer  not 
to  perceive  that  literature  was  a  formidable  engine 
of  political  warfare,  and  that  the  great  Whig  leaders 
had  strengthened  their  party  and  raised  their  char- 
so  acter  by  extending  a  liberal  and  judicious  patronage 
to  good  writers.     He  was  mortified,  and  not  with- 
out reason,  by  the  exceeding  badness  of  the  poems 
which  appeared  in  honor  of  the  battle  of  Blenheim. 
One  of  those  poems  has  been  rescued  from  oblivion 
25  by  the  exquisite  absurdity  of  three  lines : — 

"Think  of  two  thousand  gentlemen  at  least, 
And  each  man  mounted  on  his  capering  beast ; 
Into  the  Danube  they  were  pushed  by  shoals.'' 

Where  to  procure  better  verses  the  treasurer  did 
30  not   know.     He   understood   how   to   negotiate   a 


166  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

loan,  or  remit  a  subsidy ;  he  was  also  well  versed  in 
the  history  of  running  horses  and  fighting  cocks ; 
but  his  acquaintance  among  the  poets  was  very 
small.  He  consulted  Halifax ;  but  Halifax  affected 
to  decline  the  office  of  adviser.  He  had,  he  said,  5 
done  his  best,  when  he  had  power,  to  encourage 
men  whose  abilities  and  acquirements  might  do 
honor  to  their  country.  Those  times  were  over. 
Other  maxims  had  prevailed.  Merit  was  suffered 
to  pine  in  obscurity ;  and  the  public  money  was  10 
squandered  on  the  undeserving.  "I  do  know," 
he  added,  "a  gentleman  who  would  celebrate  the 
battle  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  subject,  but  I 
will  not  name  him."  Godolphin,  who  was  an 
expert  at  the  soft  answer  which  turneth  away  75 
wrath,  and  who  was  under  the  necessity  of  paying 
court  to  the  Whigs,  gently  replied  that  there  was 
too  much  ground  for  Halifax's  complaints,  but 
that  what  was  amiss  should  in  time  be  rectified, 
and  that  in  the  meantime  the  services  of  a  man  20 
such  as  Halifax  had  described  should  be  liberally 
rewarded.  Halifax  then  mentioned  Addison; 
but,  mindful  of  the  dignity  as  well  as  of  the 
pecuniary  interest  of  his  friend,  insisted  that  the 
minister  should  apply  in  the  most  courteous  man-  25 
ner  to  Addison  himself;  and  this  Godolphin  prom- 
ised to  do. 

Addison  then  occupied  a  garret  up  three  pair 
of  stairs,  over  a  small  shop  in  the  Hay  market.  In 
this   humble   lodging    he   was    surprised,    on   the  so 


LIFE    AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       167 

morning  which  followed  the  conversation  between 
Qodolphin  and  Halifax,  by  a  visit  from  no  less  a 
person  than  the  Right  Honorable  Henry  Boyle, 
then  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  afterwards 

5  Lord  Carleton.  This  high-born  minister  had  been 
sent  by  the  Lord-Treasurer  as  ambassador  to  the 
needy  poet.  Addison  readily  undertook  the  pro- 
posed task,  a  task  which,  to  so  good  a  Whig,  was 
probably  a  pleasure.     When  the  poem  was  little 

10  more  than  half  finished,  he  showed  it  to  Godol- 
phin,  who  was  delighted  with  it,  and  particularly 
with  the  famous  similitude  of  the  Angel.  Addison 
was  instantly  appointed  to  a  commissionership 
worth  about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  was 

is  assured  that  this  appointment  was  only  an  earnest 
of  greater  favors. 

The  Campaign  came  forth,  and  was  as  much 
admired  by  the  public  as  by  the  minister.  It 
pleases  us  less  on  the  whole  than  the  Epistle  to 

20  Halifax.  Yet  it  undoubtedly  ranks  high  among 
the  poems  which  appeared  during  the  interval 
between  the  death  of  Dryden  and  the  dawn  of 
Pope's  genius.  The  chief  merit  of  the  Campaign, 
we  think,  is  that  which  was  noticed  by  Johnson, 

25  the  manly  and  rational  rejection  of  fiction.  The 
first  great  poet  whose  works  have  come  down  to  us 
sang  of  war  long  before  war  became  a  science  or  -a 
trade.  If,  in  his  time,  there  was  enmity  between 
two   little    Greek    towns,    each   poured    forth   its 

30  crowd   of    citizens,    ignorant    of    discipline,    and 


168  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

armed  with  implements  of  labor  rudely  turned  into 
weapons.  On  each  side  appeared  conspicuous  a 
few  chiefs,  whose  wealth  had  enabled  them  to  pro- 
cure good  armor,  horses,  and  chariots,  and  whose 
leisure  had  enabled  them  to  practise  military  exer-  5 
cises.  One  such  chief,  if  he  were  a  man  of  great 
strength,  agility,  and  courage,  would  probably  be 
more  formidable  than  twenty  common  men ;  and 
the  force  and  dexterity  with  which  he  flung  his 
spear  might  have  no  inconsiderable  share  in  decid-  m 
ing  the  event  of  the  day.  Such  were  probably  the 
battles  with  which  Homer  was  familiar.  But 
Homer  related  the  actions  of  men  of  a  former 
generation,  of  men  who  sprang  from  the  gods,  and 
communed  with  the  gods  face  to  face ;  of  men,  one  15 
of  whom  could  with  ease  hurl  rocks  which  two 
sturdy  hinds  of  a  later  period  would  be  unable  even 
to  lift.  He  therefore  naturally  represented  their 
martial  exploits  as  resembling  in  kind,  but  far  sur- 
passing in  magnitude,  those  of  the  stoutest  and  20 
most  expert  combatants  of  his  own  age.  Achilles, 
clad  in  celestial  armor,  drawn  by  celestial  coursers, 
grasping  the  spear  which  none  but  himself  could 
raise,  driving  all  Troy  and  Lycia  before  him,  and 
choking  Scamander  with  dead,  was  only  a  magnifi-  25 
cent  exaggeration  of  the  real  hero,  who,  strong, 
fearless,  accustomed  to  the  use  of  weapons,  guarded 
by  a  shield  and  helmet  of  the  best  Sidonian  fabric, 
and  whirled  along  by  horses  of  Thessalian  breed, 
struck  down  with  his  own  right  arm,  foe  after  foe.   so 


LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       169 

In  all  rude  societies  similar  notions  are  found. 
There  are  at  this  day  countries  where  the  Life- 
guardsman  Shaw  would  be  considered  as  a  much 
greater   warrior   than    the  Duke    of    Wellington. 

5  Bonaparte  loved  to  describe  the  astonishment  with 
which  the  Mamelukes  looked  at  his  diminutive 
figure.  Mourad  Bey,  distinguished  above  all  his 
fellows  by  his  bodily  strength,  and  by  the  skill 
with  which  he  managed  his  horse  and  his  sabre, 

10  could  not  believe  that  a  man  who  was  scarcely  five 
feet  high,  and  rode  like  a  butcher,  could  be  the 
greatest  soldier  in  Europe. 

Homer's  descriptions  of  war   had  therefore   as 
much  truth  as    poetry  requires.     But   truth  was 

is  altogether  wanting  to  the  performances  of  those 
who,  writing  about  battles  which  had  scarcely  any- 
thing in  common  with  the  battles  of  his  times, 
servilely  imitated  his  manner.  The  folly  of  Silius 
Italicus,  in  particular,  is  positively  nauseous.     He 

20  undertook  to  record  in  verse  the  vicissitudes  of  a 
great  struggle  between  generals  of  the  first  order ; 
and  his  narrative  is  made  up  of  the  hideous  wounds 
which  these  generals  inflicted  with  their  own 
hands.     Asdrubal  flings  a  spear,  which  grazes  the 

25  shoulder  of  the  consul  Xero ;  but  Xero  sends  his 
spear  into  Asdrubal's  side.  Fabius  slays  Thnris 
and  Butes  and  Maris  and  Arses,  and  the  long- 
haired Adherbes,  and  the  gigantic  Thylis,  and 
Sapharus  and  Monaesus,  and  the  trumpeter  Mor- 

30  inus.     Hannibal  runs  Perusinus  through  the  groin 


170  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

with  a  stake,  and  breaks  the  backbone  of  Telesinus 
with  a  huge  stone.  This  detestable  fashion  was 
copied  in  modern  times,  and  continued  to  prevail 
down,  to  the  age  of  Addison.  Several  versifiers 
had  described  William  turning  thousands  to  flight  5 
by  his  single  prowess,  and  dyeing  the  Boyne  with 
Irish  blood.  Nay,  so  estimable  a  writer  as  John 
Philips,  the  author  of  the  Splendid  Shilling,  repre- 
sented Marlborough  as  having  won  the  battle  of 
Blenheim  merely  by  strength  of  muscle  and  skill  in  10 
fence.  The  following  lines  may  serve  as  an 
example : — 

"Churchill,  viewing  where 
The  violence  of  Tallard  most  prevailed, 
Came  to  oppose  his  slaughtering  arm.     With  speed       15 
Precipitate  he  rode,  urging  his  way 
O'er  hills  of  gasping  heroes,  and  fallen  steeds 
Rolling  in  death.     Destruction,  grim  with  blood, 
Attends  his  furious  course.     Around  his  head 
The  glowing  balls  play  innocent,  while  he  20 

With  dire  impetuous  sway  deals  fatal  blows 
Among  the  flying  Gauls.     In  Gallic  blood 
He  dyes  his  reeking  sword,  and  strews  the  ground 
With  headless  ranks.     What  can  they  do?    Or  how 
Withstand  his  wide-destroying  sword?"  25 

Addison,  with  excellent  sense  and  taste, 
departed  from  this  ridiculous  fashion.  He 
reserved  his  praise  for  the  qualities  which  made 
Marlborough  truly  great, — energy,  sagacity,  mili- 
tary science.  But,  above  all,  the  poet  extolled  the  so 
firmness  of  that  mind  which,  in  the  midst  of  con- 


LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       171 

fusion,  uproar,  and  slaughter,  examined  and  dis- 
posed everything-  with  the  serene  wisdom  of  a 
higher  intelligence. 

Here  it  was  that  he  introduced  the  famous  com- 

5  parison  of  Marlborough  to  an  Angel  guiding  the 
whirlwind.  We  will  not  dispute  the  general  jus- 
tice of  Johnson's  remarks  on  this  passage.  But 
we  must  point  out  one  circumstance  which  appears 
to  have  escaped  all  the  critics.     The  extraordinary 

10  effect  which  this  simile  produced  when  it  first 
appeared,  and  which  to  the  following  generation 
seemed  inexplicable,  is  doubtless  to  be  chiefly 
attributed  to  a  line  which  most  readers  now 
regard  as  a  feeble  parenthesis : — 

15  "Such  as,  of  late,  o'er  pale  Britannia  passed." 

Addison  spoke,  not  of  a  storm,  but  of  the  storm. 
The  great  tempest  of  November,  1703,  the  only 
tempest  which  in  our  latitude  has  equalled   the 

•20  rage  of  a  tropical  hurricane,  had  left  a  dreadful 
recollection  in  the  minds  of  all  men.  No  other 
tempest  was  ewer  in  this  country  the  occasion  of  a 
parliamentary  address  or  of  a  public  fast.  Whole 
fleets  had  been  cast  away.     Large  mansions  had 

25  been  blown  down.  One  prelate  had  been  buried 
beneath  the  ruins  of  his  palace.  London  and  Bris- 
tol had  presented  the  appearance  of  cities  just 
sacked.  Hundreds  of  families  were  still  in  mourn- 
ing.    The  prostrate  trunks  of  large  trees,  and  the 

30  ruins  of  houses,  still  attested,  in  all  the  southern 


172  MACAULAYS    ESSAYS 

counties,  the  fury  of  the  blast.  The  popularity 
which  the  simile  of  the  Angel  enjoyed  among 
Addison's  contemporaries,  has  always  seemed  to  us 
to  be  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  advantage 
which,  in  rhetoric  and  poetry,  the  particular  has  5 
over  the  general. 

Soon  after  the  Campaign,  was  published  Addi- 
son's Narrative  of  his  Travels  in  Italy.  The  first 
effect  produced  by  this  narrative  was  disappoint- 
ment. The  crowd  of  readers  who  expected  politics  10 
and  scandal,  speculations  on  the  projects  of  Victor 
Amadeus,  and  anecdotes  about  the  jollities  of  con- 
vents and  amours  of  cardinals  and  nuns,  were  con- 
founded by  finding  that  the  writer's  mind  was 
much  more  occupied  by  the  war  between  the  15 
Trojans  and  Rutulians  than  by  the  war  between 
France  and  Austria;  and  that  he  seemed  to  have 
heard  no  scandal  of  later  date  than  the  gallantries 
of  the  Empress  Faustina.  .  In  time,  however,  the 
judgment  of  the  many  was  overruled  by  that  of  20 
the  few;  and,  before  the  book  was  reprinted,  it 
was  so  eagerly  sought  that  it  sold  for  five  times  the 
original  price.  It  is  still  read  with  pleasure :  the 
style  is  pure  and  flowing ;  the  classical  quotations 
and  allusions  are  numerous  and  happy ;  and  we  are  25 
now  and  then  charmed  by  that  singularly  humane 
and  delicate  humor  in  which  Addison  excelled  all 
men.  Yet  this  agreeable  work,  even  when  con- 
sidered merely  as  the  history  of  a  literary  tour, 
may  justly  be  censured  on  account  of  its  faults  of  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISOX       173 

omission.  We  have  already  said  that,  though  rich 
in  extracts  from  the  Latin  poets,  it  contains 
scarcely  any  references  to  the  Latin  orators  and 
historians.     We  must  add,  that  it  contains  little, 

5  or  rather  no,  information  respecting  the  history 
and  literature  of  modern  Italy.  To  the  best  of  our 
remembrance,  Addison  does  not  mention  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Boiardo,  Berni,  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  or  Machiavelli.     He  coldly  tells  us  that  at 

10  Ferrara  he  saw  the  tomb  of  Ariosto,  and  that  at 
Venice  he  heard  the  gondoliers  sing  verses  of 
Tasso.  But  for  Tasso  and  Ariosto  he  cared  far 
less  than  for  Valerius  Flaccus  and  Sidonius  Apol- 
linaris.     The  gentle  flow  of  the  Ticin  brings  a  line 

is  of  Silius  to  his  mind.  The  sulphurous  steam  of 
Albula  suggests  to  him  several  passages  of  Martial. 
But  he  has  not  a  word  to  say  of  the  illustrious  dead 
of  Santa  Croce;  he  crosses  the  wood  of  Ravenna 
without  recollecting  the  Spectre    Huntsman;  and 

20  wanders  up  and  down  Rimini  without  one  thought 
of  Francesca.  At  Paris  he  had  eagerly  sought  an 
introduction  to  Boileau ;  but  he  seems  not  to  have 
been  at  all  aware  that  at  Florence  he  was  in  the 
vicinity  of  a  poet  with  whom  Boileau  could  not 

25  sustain  a  comparison,  of  the  greatest  lyric  poet  of 
modern  times,  Vincenzio  Filicaja.  This  is  the 
more  remarkable,  because  Filicaja  was  the  favorite 
poet  of  the  accomplished  Somers,  under  whose 
protection   Addison  travelled,   and  to  whom    the 

30  account  of  the  Travels  is  dedicated.     The  truth  is. 


174  MAC  AULA  Y'S   ESSAYS 

that  Addison  knew  little,  and  cared  less,  about  the 
literature  of  modern  Italy.  His  favorite  models 
were  Latin.  His  favorite  critics  were  French. 
Half  the  Tuscan  poetry  that  he  had  read  seemed  to 
him  monstrous,  and  the  other  half  tawdry.  5 

His  Travels  were  followed  by  the  lively  oj)era  of 
Rosamond.  This  piece  was  ill  set  to  music,  and 
therefore  failed  on  the  stage,  but  it  completely  suc- 
ceeded in  print,  and  is  indeed  excellent  in  its  kind. 
The  smoothness  with  which  the  verses  glide,  and  10 
the  elasticity  with  which  they  bound,  is,  to  onr 
ears  at  least,  very  pleasing.  We  are  inclined  to 
think  that  if  Addison  had  left  heroic  couplets  to 
Pope,  and  blank  verse  to  Rowe,  and  had  employed 
himself  in  writing  airy  and  spirited  songs,  his  rep  11-  15 
tation  as  a  poet  would  have  stood  far  higher  than 
it  now  does.  Some  years  after  his  death,  Rosa- 
mond was  set  to  new  music  by  Doctor  Arne ;  and 
was  performed  with  complete  success.  Several 
passages  long  retained  their  popularity,  and  were  90 
daily  sung,  during  the  latter  part  of  George  the 
Second's  reign,  at  all  the  harpsichords  in  England. 

While  Addison  thus  amused  himself,  his  pros- 
pects, and  the  prospects  of  his  party,  were  con- 
stantly becoming  brighter  and  brighter.  In  the  35 
spring  of  1705  the  ministers  were  freed  from  the 
restraint  imposed  by  a  House  of  Commons  in 
which  Tories  of  the  most  perverse  class  had  the 
ascendency.  The  elections  were  favorable  to  the 
Whigs.     The  coalition  which  had  been  tacitly  and   bo 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       1  i  5 

gradually  formed  was  now  openly  avowed.  The 
fireat  Seal  was  given  to  Cowper.  Somers  and 
Halifax  were  sworn  of  the  Council.  Halifax  was 
sent  in  the  following  year  to  carry  the  decorations 

5  of  the  order  of  the  garter  to  the  Electoral  Prince  of 
Hanover,  and  was  accompanied  on  this  honorable 
mission  by  Addison,  who  had  just  been  made 
Undersecretary  of  State.  The  Secretary  of  State 
under  whom  Addison  first  served  was  Sir  Charles 

io  Hedges,  a  Tory.  But  Hedges  was  soon  dismissed 
to  makeM'oom  for  the  most  vehement  of  Whigs, 
Charles,  Earl  of  Sunderland.  In  every  department 
of  the  state,  indeed,  the  High  Churchmen  were 
compelled  to  give  place  to  their  opponents.    At  the 

15  close  of    1707,  the   Tories  who  still  remained  in 

office  strove  to  rally,  with  Harley  at  their  head. 

But  the  attempt,  though  favored  by  the  Queen, 

.    who  had  always  been  a  Tory  at  heart,  and  who  had 

now  quarrelled  with  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 

20  was  unsuccessful.  The  time  was  not  yet.  The 
Captain  General  was  at  the  height  of  popularity 
and  glory.  The  Low  Church  party  had  a  majority 
in  Parliament.  The  country  squires  and  rectors, 
though  occasionally  uttering  a  savage  growl,  were 

25  for  the  most  part  in  a  state  of  torpor,  which  lasted 
till  they  were  roused  into  activity,  and  indeed  into 
madness,  by  the  prosecution  of  Sacheverell.  Har- 
ley and  his  adherents  were  compelled  to  retire. 
The  victory  of  the  Whigs  was  complete.     At  the 

30  general   election   of    1708,   their   strength  in   the 


176  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

House  of  Commons  became  irresistible ;  and  before 
the  end  of  that  year,  Somers  was  made  Lord  Presi- 
dent of  the  Council,  and  Wharton  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland. 

Addison  sat  for  Malmsbury  in  the  House  of  Com-  5 
mons  which  was  elected  in  1708.  But  the  House  of 
Commons  was  not  the  field  for  him.  The  bashful- 
ness  of  his  nature  made  his  wit  and  eloquence  use- 
less in  debate.  He  once  rose,  but  could  not 
overcome  his  diffidence,  and  ever  after  remained  10 
silent.  Nobody  can  think  it  strange  that  a  great 
writer  should  fail  as  a  speaker.  But  many,  prob- 
ably, will  think  it  strange  that  Addison's  failure  as 
a  speaker  should  have  had  no  unfavorable  effect  on 
his  success  as  a  politician.  In  our  time,  a  man  of  15 
high  rank  and  great  fortune  might,  though  speak- 
ing very  little  and  very  ill,  hold  a  considerable 
post.  But  it  would  now  be  inconceivable  that  a 
mere  adventurer,  a  man  who,  when  out  of  office, 
must  live  by  his  pen,  should  in  a  few  years  become  20 
successively  Undersecretary  of  State,  Chief  Secre- 
tary for  Ireland,  and  Secretary  of  State,  without 
some  oratorical  talent.  Addison,  without  high 
birth,  and  with  little  property,  rose  to  a  post  which 
dukes,  the  heads  of  the  great  houses  of  Talbot,  25 
Russell,  and  Bentinck,  have  thought  it  an  honor 
to  fill.  'Without  opening  his  lips  in  debate,  he 
rose  to  a  post  the  highest  that  Chatham  or  Fox 
€ver  reached.  And  this  he  did  before  he  had  been 
nine  years  in  Parliament.      We  must  look  for  the  n 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      177 

explanation  of  this  seeming  miracle  to  the  peculiar 
circumstances  in  which  that  generation  was  placed. 
During  the  interval  which  elapsed  between  the 
time  when  the  Censorship  of  the  Press  ceased,  and 
5  the  time  when  parliamentary  proceedings  began  to- 
be  freely  reported,  literary  talents  were,  to  a  public 
man,  of  much  more  importance,  and  oratorical 
talents  of  much  less  importance,  than  in  our  time. 
At  present,  the  best  way  of  giving  rapid  and  wide 

10  publicity  to  a  fact  or  an  argument  is  to  introduce 
that  fact  or  argument  into  a  speech  made  in  Parlia- 
ment. If  a  political  tract  were  to  appear  superior 
to  the  Conduct  of  the  Allies,  or  to  the  best  num- 
bers of  the  Freeholder,  the  circulation  of  such  a 

15  tract  would  be  languid  indeed  when  compared  with 
the  circulation  of  every  remarkable  word  uttered  in 
the  deliberations  of  the  legislature.  A  speech  made 
in  the  House  of  Commons  at  four  in  the  morning 
is  on  thirty  thousand  tables  before  ten.     A  speech 

20  made  on  the  Monday  is  read  on  the  Wednesday  by 
multitudes  in  Antrim  and  Aberdeenshire.  The 
orator,  by  the  help  of  the  shorthand  writer,  has  to 
a  great  extent  superseded  the  pamphleteer.  It 
was  not  so  in  the  reign  of  Anne.     The  best  speech 

25  could  then  produce  no  effect  except  on  those  who 
heard  it.  It  was  only  by  means  of  the  press  that 
the  opinion  of  the  public  without  doors  could  be 
influenced;  and  the  opinion  of  the  public  without 
doors    could    not    but    be   of    the   highest  impor- 

30  tance  in   a  country  governed  by  parliaments,   and 


178  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

indeed  at  that  time  governed  by  triennial  parlia- 
ments. The  pen  was,  therefore,  a  more  formida- 
ble political  engine  than  the  tongne.  Mr.  Pitt 
and  Mr.  Fox  contended  only  in  Parliament.  But 
Walpole  and  Pulteney,  the  Pitt  and  Fox  of  an  5 
earlier  period,  had  not  done  half  of  what  was  neces- 
sary, when  they  sat  clown  amidst  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  House  of  Commons.  They  had  still 
to  plead  their  cause  before  the  country,  and 
this  they  could  do  only  by  means  of  the  press.^  10 
Their  works  are  now  forgotten.  But  it  is  certain 
that  there  were  in  Grn))  Street  few  more  assidu- 
ous scribblers  of  Thoughts,  Letters,  Answers, 
Remarks,  than  these  two  great  chiefs  of  parties. 
Pulteney,  when  leader  of  the  Opposition,  and  15 
possessed  of  thirty  thousand  a  year,  edited  the 
Craftsman.  Walpole,  though  not  a  man  of  liter- 
ary habits,  was  the  author  of  at  least  ten  pam- 
phlets, and  retouched  and  corrected  many  more. 
These  facts  sufficiently  show  of  how  great  impor-  20 
tance  literary  assistance  then  was  to  the  contending 
parties.  St.  John  was  certainly,  in  Anne's  reign, 
the  best  Tory  speaker;  Cowper  was  probably  the 
best  Whig  speaker.  But  it  may  well  be  doubted 
whether  St.  John  did  so  much  for  the  Tories  as  25 
Swift,  and  whether  Cowper  did  so  much  for  the 
Whigs  as  Addison.  When  these  things  are  duly 
considered,  it  will  not  be  thought  strange  that 
Addison  should  have  climbed  higher  in  the  state 
than  any  other  Englishman  has   ever,  by  means  m 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON      179 

merely  of  literary  talents,  been  able  to  climb. 
Swift  would,  in  all  probability,  have  climbed  as 
high,  if  he  had  not  been  encumbered  by  his  cas- 
sock and  his  pudding  sleeves.     As  far  as  the  hom- 

5  age  of  the  great  went,  Swift  had  as  much  of  it  as  if 
he  had  been  Lord-Treasurer. 

To  the  influence  which  Addison  derived  from  his 
literary  talents  was  added  all  the  influence  which 
arises  from  character.     The  world,  always  ready  to 

10  think  the  worst  of  needy  political  adventurers,  was 
forced  to  make  one  exception.  Restlessness,  vio- 
lence, audacity,  laxity  of  principle,  are  the  vices 
ordinarily  attributed  to  that  class  of  men.  But 
faction  itself  could  not  deny  that  Addison  had, 

is  through  all  changes  of  fortune,  been  strictly  faith- 
ful to  his  early  opinions,  and  to  his  early  friends ; 
that  his  integrity  was  without  stain ;  that  his  whole 
deportment  indicated  a  fine  sense  of  the  becoming ; 
that  in  the  utmost  heat  of  controversy,  his  zeal  was 

20  tempered  by  a  regard  for  truth,  humanity,  and 
social  decorum ;  that  no  outrage  could  ever  provoke 
him  to  retaliation  unworthy  of  a  Christian  and  a 
gentleman;  and  that  his  only  faults  were  a  too 
sensitive  delicacy,  and  a  modesty  which  amounted 

25  to  bashf ulness. 

l  He  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  popular 
men  of  his  time ;  and  much  of  his  popularity  he 
owed,  we  believe,  to  that  very  timidity  which  his 
friends  lamented.     That  timidity  often  prevented 

so  him  from  exhibiting  his  talents  to  the  best  advan 


180  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

tage.    But  it  propitiated  Nemesis.    It  averted  that 
envy  which  would  otherwise  have  been  excited  by 
fame  so  splendid,  and  by  so  rapid  an  elevation. 
No  man  is  so  great  a  favorite  with  the  public  as  he 
who  is  at  once  an  object  of  admiration,  of  respect,    5 
and  of  pity;    and  such  were   the  feelings  which 
Addison  inspired.     Those  who  enjoyed  the  privi- 
lege of  hearing  his  familiar  conversation,  declared 
with  one  voice  that  it  was  superior  even  to  his 
writings.     The  brilliant  Mary  Montague  said,  that   10 
she  had  known  all  the  wits,  and  that  Addison  was 
the  best  company  in  the  world.     The  malignant 
Pope  was  forced  to  own,  that  there  was  a  charm  in 
Addison's  talk  which  could  be  found  nowhere  else. 
Swift,   when  burning  with  animosity  against  the  15 
Whigs,  could  not  but  confess  to  Stella  that,  after 
all,  he  had  never  known  any  associate  so  agreeable 
as  Addison.     Steele,  an  excellent  judge  of  lively 
conversation,  said,  that  the  conversation  of  Addi- 
son was  at  once  the  most  polite,  and  the  most  20 
mirthful,    that   could   be   imagined;   that   it   was 
Terence   and   Catullus   in   one,  heightened   by  an 
exquisite   something   which   was   neither   Terence 
nor    Catullus,    but    Addison    alone.     Young,    an 
excellent  judge  of  serious  conversation,  said,  that  25 
when  Addison  was  at  his  ease,  he  went  on  in  a 
noble  strain  of  thought  and   language,   so  as  to 
chain  the  attention  of  every  hearer.     Nor    were 
Addison's  great  colloquial  powers  more  admirable 
than  the  courtesy  and  the  softness  of  heart  which  30 


LIFE    AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       181 

appeared  in  his  conversation.  At  the  same  time, 
it  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  was  wholly 
devoid  of  the  malice  which  is,  perhaps,  inseparable 
from  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous.     He  had  one 

5  habit  which  both  Swift  and  Stella  applauded,  and 
which  we  hardly  know  how  to  blame.  If  his  first 
attempts  to  set  a  presuming  dunce  right  were  ill 
received,  he  changed  his  tone,  "assented  with  civil 
leer,"  and  lured  the  flattered  coxcomb  deeper  and 

10  deeper  into  absurdity.  That  such  was  his  practice 
we  should,  we  think,  have  guessed  from  his  works. 
The  Tatters  criticisms  on  Mr.  Softly's  sonnet,  and 
the  Spectator's  dialogue  with  the  politician  who  is 
so  zealous  for  the  honor  of  Lady  Q — p — t — s,  are 

is  excellent  specimens  of  this  innocent  mischief. 

Such  were  Addison's  talents  for  conversation. 
But  his  rare  gifts  were  not  exhibited  to  crowds  or 
to  strangers.  As  soon  as  he  entered  a  large  com- 
pany, as  soon  as  he  saw  an  unknown  face,  his  lips 

ao  were  sealed,  and  his  manners  became  constrained. 
Xone  who  met  him  only  in  great  assemblies  would 
have  been  able  to  believe  that  he  was  the  same  man 
who  had  often  kept  a  few  friends  listening  and 
laughing  round  a  table,  from  the  time  when  the 

25  play  ended,  till  the  clock  of  St.  Paul's  in  Covent 
Garden  struck  four.  Yet,  even  at  such  a  table  he 
was  not  seen  to  the  best  advantage.  To  enjoy  his 
conversation  in  the  highest  perfection,  it  was  nec- 
essary to  be  alone  with  him,  and  to  hear  him,  in 

30  his  own  phrase,  think  aloud.      "There  is  no  such 


182  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

thing,"  be  used  to  say,  "as  real  conversation,  but 
between  two  persons." 

This  timidity,  a  timidity  surely  neither  ungrace- 
ful nor  unamiable,  led  Addison  into  the  two  most 
serious  faults  which  can  with  justice  be  imputed  to  5 
him.  He  found  that  wine  broke  the  spell  which 
lay  on  his  fine  intellect,  and  was  therefore  too 
easily  seduced  into  convivial  excess.  Such  excess 
was  in  that  age  regarded,  even  by  grave  men,  as 
the  most  venial  of  all  peccadilloes,  and  was  so  far  10 
from  being  a  mark  of  ill-breeding,  that  it  was 
almost  essential  to  the  character  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man. But  the  smallest  speck  is  seen  on  a  white 
ground ;  and  almost  all  the  biographers  of  Addison 
have  said  something  about  this  failing.  Of  any  15 
other  statesman  or  writer  of  Queen  Anne's  reign, 
we  should  no  more  think  of  saying  that  he  some- 
times took  too  much  wine,  than  that  he  wore  a 
long  wig  and  a  sword. 

To  the  excessive  modesty  of  Addison's  nature  we  20 
must  ascribe  another  fault  which  generally  arises 
from  a  very  different  cause.  He  became  a  little 
too  fond  of  seeing  himself  surrounded  by  a  small 
circle  of  admirers,  to  whom  he  was  as  a  king,  or 
rather  as  a  god.  All  these  men  were  far  inferior  25 
to  him  in  ability,  and  some  of  them  had  very  seri- 
ous faults.  Nor  did  those  faults  escape  his  obser- 
vation; for,  if  ever  there  was  an  eye  which  saw 
through  and  through  men,  it  was  the  eye  of  Addi- 
son.    But  with  the  keenest  observation,  and  tin-   30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      183 

finest  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  he  had  a  large 
charity.  The  feeling  with  which  he  looked  on 
most  of  his  humble  companions  was  one  of  benevo- 
lence, slightly  tinctured  with  contempt.     He  was 

5  at  perfect  ease  in  their  company ;  he  was  grateful 
for  their  devoted  attachment;  and  he  loaded  them 
with  benefits.  Their  veneration  for  him  appears 
to  have  exceeded  that  with  which  Johnson  was 
regarded  by  Boswell,  or  AVarburton  by  Hurd.     It 

10  was  not  in  the  power  of  adulation  to  turn  such  a 
head,  or  deprave  such  a  heart,  as  Addison's.  But 
it  must  in  candor,  be  admitted  that  he  contracted 
some  of  the  faults  which  can  scarcely  be  avoided 
by  any  person  who  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  the 

15  oracle  of  a  small  literary  coterie. 

One  member  of  this  little  society  was  Eustace 
Budgell,  a  young  Templar  of  some  literature,  and 
a  distant  relation  of  Addison.  There  was  at  this 
time  no  stain  on  »the  character  of  Budgell,  and  it  is 

2$  not  improbable  that  his  career  would  have  been 
prosperous  and  honorable,  if  the  life  of  his  cousin 
had  been  prolonged.  But,  when  the  master  was 
laid  in  the  grave,  the  disciple  broke  loose  from  all 
restraint,    descended  rapidly  from    one   degree  of 

25  vice  and  misery  to  another,  ruined  his  fortune  by 
follies,  attempted  to  repair  it  by  crimes,  and  at 
length  closed  a  wicked  and  unhappy  life  by  self- 
murder.  Yet,  to  the  last,  the  wretched  man, 
gambler,    lampooner,    cheat,    forger,    as    he    was, 

so  retained  his  affection  and  veneration  for  Addison, 


184  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

and  recorded  those  feelings  in  the  last  lines  which 
he  traced  before  he  hid  himself  from  infamy  under 
London  Bridge.^ 

Another  of  Addison's  favorite  companions  was 
Ambrose  Philips,  a  good  Whig  and  a  middling  5 
poet,  who  had  the  honor  of  bringing  into  fashion  a 
species  of  composition  which  has  been  called,  after 
his  name,  Namby  Pamby.  But  the  most  remark- 
able members  of  the  little  senate,  as  Pope  long 
afterwards  called  it,  were  Richard  Steele  and  10 
Thomas  Tickell. 

Steele  had  known  Addison  from  childhood. 
They  had  been  together  at  the  Charter  House  and 
at  Oxford ;  but  circumstances  had  then,  for  a  time, 
separated  them  widely.  Steele  had  left  college  15 
without  taking  a  degree,  had  been  disinherited  by 
a  rich  relation,  had  led  a  vagrant  life,  had  served 
in  the  army,  had  tried  to  find  the  philosopher's 
stone,  and  had  written  a  religious  treatise  and 
several  comedies.  He  was  one  of  those  people  20 
whom  it  is  impossible  either  to  hate  or  to  respect. 
His  temper  was  sweet,  his  affections  warm,  his 
spirits  lively,  his  passions  strong,  and  his  prin- 
ciples weak.  His  life  was  spent  in  sinning  and 
repenting;  in  inculcating  what  was  right,  and  25 
doing  what  was  wrong.  In  speculation,  he  was  a 
man  of  piety  and  honor ;  in  practice  he  was  much 
of  the  rake  and  a  little  of  the  swindler.  He  was, 
however,  so  good-natured  that  it  was  not  easy  to  be 
seriously   angry    with    him,    and   that    even    rigid   M 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       185 

moralists  felt  more  inclined  to  pity  than  to  blame 
him,  when  lie  diced  himself  into  a  spunging-house 
or  drank  himself  into  a  fever.  Addison  regarded 
Steele  with  kindness  not  immingled  with  scorn, 
5  tried,  with  little  success,  to  keep  him  out  of 
scrapes,  introduced  him  to  the  great,  procured  a 
good  place  for  him,  corrected  his  plays,  and, 
though  by  no  means  rich,  lent  him  large. sums  of 
money.     One  of  these  loans  appears,  from  a  letter 

io  dated  in  August,  1708,  to  have  amounted  to  a 
thousand  pounds.  These  pecuniary  transactions 
probably  led  to  frequent  bickerings.  It  is  said 
that,  on  one  occasion,  Steele's  negligence,  or  dis- 
honesty, provoked  Addison  to  repay  himself  by  the 

is  help  of  a  bailiff.  We  cannot  join  with  Miss  Aikin 
in  rejecting  this  story.  Johnson  heard  it  from 
Savage,  who  heard  it  from  Steele.  Few. private 
transactions  which  took  place  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years  ago,  are  proved  by  stronger  evidence 

20  than  this.  But  we  can  by  no  means  agree  with 
those  who  condemn  Addison's  severity.  The  most 
amiable  of  mankind  may  well  be  moved  to  indigna- 
tion, when  what  he  has  earned  hardly,  and  lent 
with  great  inconvenience  to  himself,  for  the  pur- 

25  pose  of  relieving  a  friend  in  distress,  is  squandered 
with  insane  profusion.  We  will  illustrate  our 
meaning  by  an  example  which  is  not  the  less 
striking  because  it  is  taken  from  fiction.  Dr. 
Harrison,  in  Fielding's  Amelia,  is  represented  as 

30  the  most    benevolent  of    human   beings;    yet   he 


186  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS    , 

takes  in  execution,  not  only  the  goods,  bat  the 
person  of  his  friend  Booth.  Dr.  Harrison  resorts 
to  this  strong  measure  because  he  has  been  in- 
formed that  Booth,  while  pleading  poverty  as  an 
excuse  for  not  paying  just  debts,  has  been  buying  5 
fine  jewellery,  and  setting  up  a  coach.  Xo  person 
who  is  well  acquainted  with  Steele's  life  and  cor- 
respondence can  doubt  that  he  behaved  quite  as  ill 
to  Addison  as  Booth  was  accused  of  behaving  to 
Dr.  Harrison.  The  real  history,  we  have  little  10 
doubt,  was  something  like  this : — A  letter  comes  to 
Addison,  imploring  help  in  pathetic  terms,  and 
promising  reformation  and  speedy  repayment. 
Poor  Dick  declares  that  he  has  not  an  inch  of 
candle,  or  a  bushel  of  coals,  or  credit  with  the  15 
butcher  for  a  shoulder  of  mutton.  Addison  is 
moved.  He  determines  to  deny  himself  some 
medals  which  are  wanting  to  his  series  of  the 
Twelve  Caesars ;  to  put  off  buying  the  new  edition 
of  Bayle's  Dictionary;  and  to  wear  his  old  sword  20 
and  buckles  another  year.  In  this  way  he  manages 
to  send  a  hundred  pounds  to  his  friend.  The  next 
day  he  calls  on  Steele,  and  finds  scores  of  gentle- 
men and  ladies  assembled.  The  fiddles  are  play- 
ing. The  table  is  groaning  under  champagne,  85 
burgundy,  and  pyramids,  of  sweetmeats.  Is.  it 
strange  that  a  man  whose  kindness  is  thus  abused, 
should  send  sheriff's  officers  to  reclaim  what  is  due 
to  him? 

Tickell  was  a  young  man,  fresh  from   Oxford,   ao 


LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF    ADDISON 

who  had  introduced  himself  to  public  notice  by 
writing  a  most  ingenious  and  graceful  little  poem 
in  praise  of  the  opera  of  Rosamond.  He  deserved, 
and  at  length  attained,  the  first  place  in  Addison's 

5  friendship.  For  a  time  Steele  and  Tickell  were  on 
good  terms.  But  they  loved  Addison  too  much  to 
love  each  other,  and  at  length  became  as  bitter 
enemies  as  the  rival  bulls  in  Virgil. 

At  the  close  of    1708  Wharton    became    Lord 

i«  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  appointed  Addison 
Chief  Secretary.  Addison  was  consequently  under 
the  necessity  of  quitting  London  for  Dublin. 
Besides  the  chief  secretaryship,  which  was  then 
worth   about    two    thousand   pounds   a   year,    he 

is  obtained  a  patent  appointing  him  keeper  of  the 
Irish  Records  for  life,  with  a  salary  of  three  or 
four  hundred  a  year.  Budgell  accompanied  his 
cousin  in  the  capacity  of  private  secretary. 

Wharton  and  Addison  had  nothing  in  common 

ao  bnt  Whiggism.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  was  not 
only  licentious  and  corrupt,  but  was  distinguished 
from  other  libertines  and  jobbers  by  a  callous  im- 
pudence which  presented  the  strongest  contrast  to 
the    Secretary's    gentleness   and    delicacy.     Many 

25  parts  of  the  Irish  administration  at  this  time 
appear  to  have  deserved  serious  blame.  But 
against  Addison  there  was  not  a  murmur.  He 
long  afterwards  asserted,  what  all  the  evidence 
which  we  have    ever   seen    tends    to  prove,   that 

so   his    diligence   and    integrity    gained    the    friend- 


188  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS      • 

ship    of    all    the    most    considerable    persons    in 
Ireland. 

The  parliamentary  career  of  Addison  in  Ireland 
has,  we  think,  wholly  escaped  the  notice  of  all  his 
biographers.  He  was  elected  member  for  the  5 
borongh  of  Cavan  in  the  summer  of  1709 ;  and  in 
the  journals  of  two  sessions  his  name  frequently 
occurs.  Some  of  the  entries  appear  to  indicate 
that  he  so  far  overcame  his  timidity  as  to  make 
speeches.  Nor  is  this  by  any  means  improbable;  io 
for  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  was  a  far  less 
formidable  audience  than  the  English  House;  and 
many  tongues  which  were  tied  by  fear  in  the 
greater  assembly  became  fluent  in  the  smaller. 
Gerard  Hamilton,  for  example,  who,  from  fear  of  is 
losing  the  fame  gained  by  his  single  speech,  sat 
mute  at  Westminster  during  forty  years,  spoke 
with  great  effect  at  Dublin  when  he  was  secretary 
to  Lord  Halifax. 

While  Addison  was  in  Ireland,  an  event  occurred  20 
to  which  he  owes  his  high  and  permanent  rank 
among  British  writers.  As  yet  his  fame  rested  on 
performances  which,  though  highly  respectable, 
were  not  built  for  duration,  and  which  would,  if 
he  had  produced  nothing  else,  have  now  been  25 
almost  forgotten ;  on  some  excellent  Latin  verses ; 
on  some  English  verses  which  occasionally  rose 
above  mediocrity ;  and  on  a  book  of  travels,  agree- 
ably written,  but  not  indicating  any  extraordinary 
powers  of  mind.     These  works  showed  him  to^be  a  80 


LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       189 

man  of  taste,  sense,  and  learning.  The  time  had 
come  when  he  was  to  prove  himself  a  man  of 
genius,  and  to  enrich  our  literature  with  composi- 
tions which  will  live  as  long  as  the  English  lan- 

5  guage. 

In  the  spring  of  1709  Steele  formed  a  literary 
project,  of  which  he  was  far  indeed  from  foresee- 
ing the  consequences.  Periodical  papers  had 
during    many  years  been    published  in   London. 

10  Most  of  these  were  political ;  but  in  some  of  them 
questions  of  morality,  taste,  and  love-casuistry  had 
been  discussed.  The  literary  merit  of  these  works 
was  small  indeed ;  and  even  then*  names  are  now 
known  only  to  the  curious. 

is       Steele  had  been  appointed  Gazetteer  by  Sunder- 
land, at  the  request,  it  is  said,  of  Addison,  and, 
thus  had  access  to  foreign  intelligence  earlier  and 
more  authentic  than  was  in  those  times  within  the 
reach  of  an  ordinary  news-writer.     This  circum- 

20  stance  seems  to  have  suggested  to  him  the  scheme 
of  publishing  a  periodical  paper  on  a  new  plan.  It 
was  to  appear  on  the  days  on  which  the  post  left 
London  for  the  country,  which  were,  in  that 
generation,  the  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Satur- 

25  days.  It  was  to  contain  the  foreign  news,  accounts 
of  theatrical  representations,  and  the  literary  gossip 
of  "Will's  and  of  the  Grecian.  It  was  also  to  con- 
tain remarks  on  the  fashionable  topics  of  the  day, 
compliments   to    beauties,   pasquinades    on    noted 

w  sharpers,   and    criticisms    on    popular    preachers. 


190  AIACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

The  aim  of  Steele  does  not  appear  to  have  been  at 
first  higher  than  this.  He  was  not  ill-qualified  to 
conduct  the  work  which  he  had  planned.  His 
public  intelligence  he  drew  from  the  best  sources. 
He  knew  the  town,  and  had  paid  dear  for  his  5 
knowledge.  He  had  read  much  more  than  the 
dissipated  men  of  that  time  were  in  the  habit  of 
reading.  He  was  a  rake  among  scholars,  and  a 
scholar  among  rakes.  His  style  was  easy  and  not 
incorrect;  and  though  his  wit  and  humor  were  of  10 
no  high  order,  his  gay  animal  spirits  imparted  to 
his  compositions  an  air  of  vivacity  which  ordinary 
readers  could  hardly  distinguish  from  comic 
genius.  His  writings  have  been  well  compared  to 
those  light  wines  which,  though  deficient  in  body  15 
and  flavor,  are  yet  a  pleasant  small  drink,  if  not 
kept  too  long,  or  carried  too  far. 

Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esquire,  Astrologer,  was  an 
imaginary  person,  almost  as  well  known  in  that 
age  as  Mr.  Paul  Pry  or  Mr.  Samuel  Pickwick  in  ao 
ours.  Swift  had  assumed  the  name  of  BickerstafT 
in  a  satirical  pamphlet  against  Partridge,  the 
maker  of  almanacs.  Partridge  had  been  fool 
enough  to  publish  a  furious  reply.  Bickerstaff 
had  rejoined  in  a  second  pamphlet  still  more  25 
diverting  than  the  first.  All  the  wits  had 
combined  to  keep  up  the  joke,  and  the  town  was 
long  in  convulsions  of  laughter.  Steele  deter- 
mined to  employ  the  name  which  this  controversy 
had  made  popular;    and  in  April,   1700,   it  was  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON      191 

announced  that  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esquire,  Astrolo- 
ger, was  about  to  publish  a  paper  called  the  Tatler. 
Addison    had    not    been    consulted    about    this 
scheme;  but  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  it  he  deter  - 

5  mined  to  give  his  assistance.  The  effect  of  that 
assistance  cannot  be  better  described  than  in 
Steele's  own  words.  "I  fared,"  he  said,  ''like  a 
distressed  prince  who  calls  in  a  powerful  neighbor 
to  his  aid.     I  was  undone  by  my  auxiliary.     AVhen 

10  I  had  once  called  him  in,  I  could  not  subsist  with- 
out dependence  on  him."  "The  jDaper,"  he  says 
elsewhere,  "was  advanced  indeed.  It  was  raised 
to  a  greater  thing  than  I  intended  it." 

It  is  probable  that  Addison,  when  he  sent  across 

is  St.  George's  Channel  his  first  contributions  to  the 
Tatler,  had  no  notion  of  the  extent  and  variety  of 
his  own  powers.  He  was  the  possessor  of  a  vast 
mine,  rich  with  a  hundred  ores.  But  he  had 
been  acquainted  only  with  the  least  precious  part 

20  of  his  treasures,  and  had  hitherto  contented  him- 
self with  producing  sometimes  copper  and  some- 
times lead,  intermingled  with  a  little  silver.  All 
at  once,  and  by  mere  accident,  he  had  lighted  on 
an  inexhaustible  vein  of  the  finest  gold. 

25  The  mere  choice  and  arrangement  of  his  words 
would  have  sufficed  to  make  his  essays  classical.  For 
never,  not  even  by  Dryden,  not  even  by  Temple, 
had  the  English  language  been  written  with  such 
sweetness,  grace,  and  facility.     But  this  was  the 

30  smallest  part  of  Addison's  praise.     Had  he  clothed 


102  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

his  thoughts  in  the  half  French  style  of  Horace 
Walpole,  or  in  the  half  Latin  style  of  Dr.  John- 
son, or  in  the  half  German  jargon  of  the  present 
day,  his  genius  would  have  triumphed  over  all 
faults  of  manner.  As  a  moral  satirist  he  stands  5 
unrivalled.  If  ever  the  best  Tatlers  and  Spec-' 
tators  were  equalled  in  their  own  kind,  we  should 
be  inclined  to  guess  that  it  must  have  been  by  the 
lost  comedies  of  Menander. 

In  wit,  properly  so  called,  Addison  was  not  10 
inferior  to  Cowley  or  Butler.  No  single  ode  of 
Cowley  contains  so  many  happy  analogies  as  are 
crowded  into  the  lines  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller ;  and 
we  would  undertake  to  collect  from  the  Spectators 
as  great  a  number  of  ingenious  illustrations  as  can  15 
be  found  in  Hudibras.  The  still  higher  faculty  of 
invention  Addison  possessed  in  still  larger  meas- 
ure. The  numerous  fictions,  generally  original, 
often  wild  and  grotesque,  but  always  singularly 
graceful  and  happy,  which  are  found  in  his  essays,  20 
fully  entitle  him  to  the  rank  of  a  great  poet,  a 
rank  to  which  his  metrical  compositions  give  him 
no  claim.  /  As  an  observer  of  life,  of  manners,  of 
all  the  shades  of  human  character,  he  stands  in  the 
first  class.  And  what  he  observed  he  had  the  art  25 
of  communicating  in  two  widely  different  ways. 
He  could  describe  virtues,  vices,  habits,  whims  as 
well  as  Clarendon.  But  he  could  do  something 
better.  He  could  call  human  beings  into  exist- 
ence, and  make  them  exhibit  themselves.     If  we  30 


LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       W3 

wish  to  find  anything  more  vivid  than  Addison's 
best  portraits,  we  must  go  either  to  Shakespeare  or 
to  Cervantes. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  Addison's  humor,  of 

s  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  of  his  power  of  awaken- 
ing that  sense  in  others,  and  of  drawing  mirth  from 
incidents  which  occur  every  day,  and  from  little 
peculiarities  of  temper  and  manner,  such  as  may 
be  found  in  every  man?     We  feel  the  charm:  we 

10  give  ourselves  up  to  it ;  but  we  strive  in  vain  to 
analyze  it. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  of  describing  Addison's 
peculiar  pleasantry  is  to  compare  it  with  the  pleas- 
antry of   some  other  great    satirists.     The  three 

15  most  eminent  masters  of  the  art  of  ridicule  during 
the  eighteenth  century,  were,  we  conceive,  Addi- 
son, Swift,  and  Voltaire.  Which  of  the  three  had 
the  greatest  power  of  moving  laughter  may  be 
questioned.     But  each  of  them,  within  his  own 

80  domain,  was  supreme. 

Voltaire  is  the  prince  of  buffoons.  His  merri- 
ment is  without  disguise  or  restraint.  He  gam- 
bols ;  he  grins ;  he  shakes  his  sides ;  he  points  the 
finger;  he  turns  up  the  nose;  he  shoots  out  the 

25  tongue.  The  manner  of  Swift  is  the  very  opposite 
to  this.  He  moves  laughter,  but  never  joins  in  it. 
He  appears  in  his  works  such  as  he  appeared  in 
society.  All  the  company  are  convulsed  with 
merriment,  while  the  Dean,  the  author  of  all  the 

30  mirth,   preserves  an  invincible  gravity,   and  even 


194  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

sourness  of  aspect,  and  gives  utterance  to  the  most 
eccentric  and  ludicrous  fancies,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  reading  the  commination  service. 

The  manner  of  Addison  is  as  remote  from  that 
of  Swift  as  from  that  of  Voltaire.     He   neither    5 
laughs  out  like  the  French  wit,  nor,  like  the  Irish 
wit,  throws  a  double  portion  of  severity  into  his 
countenance  while   laughing    inwardly;    but  pre- 
serves a  look  peculiarly  his  own,  a  look  of  demure 
serenity,  disturbed  only  by  an  arch  sparkle  of  the   10 
eye,  an  almost  imperceptible  elevation  of  the  brow, 
an  almost  imperceptible  curl  of  the  lip.     His  tone 
is  never  that  either  of  a   Jack  Padding  or    of  a 
cynic.     It  is  that   of  a  gentleman,  in  whom  the 
quickest    sense    of    the   ridiculous    is    constantly   15 
tempered  by  good  nature  and  good  breeding. 

We  own  that  the  humor  of  Addison  is,  in  our 
opinion,  of  a  more  delicious  flavor  than  the  humor 
of  either  Swift  or  Voltaire.  Thus  much,  at  least, 
is  certain,  that  both  Swift  and  Voltaire  have  been  20 
successfully  mimicked,  and  that  no  man  has  yet 
been  able  to  mimic  Addison.^)  The  letter  of  the 
Abbe  Coyer  to  Pansophe  is  Voltaire  all  over,  and 
imposed,  during  a  long  time,  on  the  Academicians 
of  Paris.  There  are  passages  in  Arbuthnot's  25 
satirical  works  which  we,  at  least,  cannot  distin- 
guish from  Swift's  best  writing.  But  of  the  many 
eminent  men  who  have  made  Addison  their 
model,  though  several  have  copied  his  mere  diction 
with  happy  effect,  none  have  been  able  to  catch   30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF    ADDISON       195 

the  tone  of  his  pleasantry.  In  the  World,  in  the 
Connoisseur,  in  the  Mirror,  in  the  Lounger,  there 
are  numerous  papers  written  in  obvious  imitation 
of   his    Tatlers    and    Spectators.     Most    of    these 

5  papers  have  some  merit ;  many  are  very  lively  and 
amusing;  but  there  is  not  a  single  one  which 
could  be  passed  off  as  Addison's  on  a  critic  of  the 
smallest  perspicacity. 

But    that  which    chiefly  distinguishes  Addison 

10  from  Swift,  from  Voltaire,  from  almost  all  the 
other  great  masters  of  ridicule,  is  the  grace,  the 
nobleness,  the  moral  purity,  which  we  find  even  in 
his  merriment.  Severity,  gradually  hardening  and 
darkening    into    misanthropy,    characterizes    the 

15  works  of  Swift.  The  nature  of  Voltaire  was, 
indeed,  not  inhuman;  but  he  venerated  nothing. 
Neither  in  the  masterpieces  of  art  nor  in  the  purest 
examples  of  virtue,  neither  in  the  Great  First  Cause 
nor  in  the  awful  enigma  of  the  grave,  could  he  see 

20  anything  but  subjects  for  drollery.  The  more 
solemn  and  august  the  theme,  the  more  monkey- 
like was  his  grimacing  and  chattering.  The 
mirth  of  Swift  is  the  mirth  of  Mephistopheles ;  the 
mirth  of  Voltaire  is  the  mirth  of  Puck.     If,  as 

25  Soame  Jenyns  oddly  imagined,  a  portion  of  the 
happiness  of  seraphim  and  just  men  made  perfect 
be  derived  from  an  exquisite  perception  of  the 
ludicrous,  their  mirth  must  surely  be  none  other 
than   the  mirth   of  Addison;    a  mirth  consistent 

30   with  tender  compassion  for  all  that  is  frail,  and 


196  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

with  profound  reverence  for  all  that  is  sublime. 
Nothing  great,  nothing  amiable,   no  moral  duty, 
no  doctrine  of  natural  or  revealed  religion,  has  ever 
been  associated  by  Addison  with  any  degrading 
idea.     His  humanity  is  without  a  parallel  in  liter-    5 
ary  history.     The  highest  proof  of   virtue  is    to 
possess  boundless  power  without  abusing  it.     No 
kind  of  power  is  more  formidable  than  the  power 
of  making  men  ridiculous;  and  that  power  Addi- 
son possessed  in  boundless  measure.     How  grossly  10 
that  power  was  abused  by  Swift  and  by  Voltaire  is 
well  known.     But  of  Addison  it  may  be  confidently 
affirmed  that  he  has  blackened  no  man's  character, 
nay,  that  it  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible, 
to  find  in  all  the  volumes  which  he  has  left  us  a  15 
single  taunt  which   can  be  called  ungenerous  or 
unkind.     Yet  he  had  detractors,  whose  malignity 
might  have  seemed  to  justify  as  terrible  a  revenge 
as  that  which  men,  not  superior  to  him  in  genius, 
wreaked  on  Bettesworth  and  on  Franc  de  Pompig-  20 
nan.     He  was  a  politician;  he  was  the  best  writer 
of  his  party ;  he  lived  in  times  of  fierce  excitement, 
in- times  when  persons  of  high  character  and  station 
stooped  to  scurrility  such  as  is  now  practised  only 
by  the  basest  of  mankind.     Yet  no  provocation  25 
and  no  example  could  induce  him  to  return  railing 
for  railing. 

Of  the  service  which  his  Essays  rendered  to 
morality  it  is  difficult  to  speak  too  highly.  It  is 
true,  that,  when  the  Tatl&r  appeared,  that  age  of  30 


LIFE  AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      107 

outrageous  profaneness  and  licentiousness  which 
followed  the  Restoration  had  passed  away. 
Jeremy  Collier  had  shamed  the  theatres  into  some- 
thing which,  compared  with  the  excesses  of  Ether  - 

5  ege  and  Wycherley,  might  be  called  decency.  Yet 
there  still  lingered  in  the  public  mind  a  pernicious 
notion  that  there  was  some  connection  between 
genius  and  profligacy;  between  the  domestic  vir- 
tues and  the  sullen    formality  of    the   Puritans. 

10  That  error  it  is  the  glory  of  Addison  to  have  dis- 
pelled. He  taught  the  nation  that  the  faith"  and 
the  morality  of  Hale  and  Tillotson  might  be  found 
in  company  with  wit  more  sparkling  than  the  wit 
of    Congreve,   and  with    humor  richer    than  the 

15  humor  of  Yanbrugh.  So  effectually,  indeed,  did 
he  retort  on  vice  the  mockery  which  had  recently 
been  directed  against  virtue,  that,  since  his  time, 
the  open  violation  of  decency  has  always  been  con- 
sidered among  us  as  the  mark  of  a  fool.     And  this 

20  revolution,  the  greatest  and  most  salutary  ever 
effected  by  any  satirist,  he  accomplished,  be  it 
remembered,  without  writing  one  personal  lam- 
poon. 

In  the  early  contributions  of    Addison  to  the 

25  Tatter,  his  peculiar  powers  were  not  fully  ex- 
hibited. Yet  from  the  first,  his  superiority  to  all 
his  coadjutors  was  evident.  Some  of  his  later 
Tatlers  are  fully  equal  to  anything  that  he  ever 
wrote.     Among    the    portraits,   we    most    admire 

30   Tom  Folio,  Ned  Softly,  and  the  Political  Uphol- 


198  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

sterer.  The  proceedings  of  the  Court  of  Honor, 
the  Thermometer  of  Zeal,  the  story  of  the  Frozen 
Words,  the  Memoirs  of  the  Shilling,  are  excellent 
specimens  of  that  ingenious  and  lively  species  of 
fiction  in  which  Addison  excelled  all  men.  There  s 
is  one  still  better  paper  of  the  same  class.  But 
though  that  paper,  a  hundred  and  thirty-three 
years  ago,  was  probably  thought  as  edifying  as  one 
of  Smalridge's  sermons,  we  dare  not  indicate  it  to 
the  squeamish  readers  of  the  nineteenth  century.   10 

During  the  session  of  Parliament  which  com- 
menced in  November,  1709,  and  which  the  im- 
peachment of  Sacheverell  has  made  memorable, 
Addison  appears  to  have  resided  in  London.  The 
Tatler  was  now  more  popular  than  any  periodical  15 
paper  had  ever  been;  and  his  connection  with  it 
was  generally  known.  It  was  not  known,  how- 
ever, that  almost  everything  good  in  the  Tatler  was 
his.  The  truth  is,  that  the  fifty  or  sixty  numbers 
which  we  owe  to  him  were  not  merely  the  best,  20 
but  so  decidedly  the  best  that  any  five  of  them  are 
more  valuable  than  all  the  two  hundred  numbers 
in  which  he  had  no  share. 

He  required,  at  this  time,  all  the  solace  which 
he  could  derive  from  literary  success.  The  Queen  25 
had  always  disliked  the  Whigs.  She  had  during 
some  years  disliked  the  Marlborough  family.  But, 
reigning  by  a  disputed  title,  she  could  not  venture 
directly  to  oppose  herself  to  a  majority  of  both 
Houses  of  Parliament;  and,  engaged  as  she  was  in  a? 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       199 

a  war  on  the  event  of  whicli  her  own  crown  was 
staked,  she  conld  not  venture  to  disgrace  a  great 
and  successful  general.  But  at  length,  in  the  year 
1710,  the  causes  which  had  restrained  her  from 

5  showing  her  aversion  to  the  Low  Church  party 
ceased  to  operate.  The  trial  of  Sacheverell  pro- 
duced an  outbreak  of  public  feeling  scarcely  less 
violent  than  the  outbreaks  which  we  can  ourselves 
remember  in   1820,   and  in  1831.     The   country 

w  gentlemen,  the  country  clergymen,  the  rabble  of 
the  towns,  were  all,  for  once,  on  the  same  side. 
It  was  clear  that,  if  a  general  election  took  place 
before  the  excitement  abated,  the  Tories  would 
have  a  majority.     The   services  of    Marlborough 

is  had  been  so  splendid  that  they  were  no  longer 
necessary.  The  Queen's  throne  was  secure  from 
all  attack  on  the  part  of  Louis.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
much  more  likely  that  the  English  and  German 
armies  would  divide  the  spoils  of  Versailles  and 

so  Marli  than  that  a  Marshal  of  France  would  bring 
back  the  Pretender  to  St.  James's.  The  Queen, 
acting  by  the  advice  of  Harley,  determined  to  dis- 
miss her  servants.  In  June  the  change  com- 
menced.    Sunderland  was  the  first  who  fell.     The 

85  Tories  exulted  over  his  fall.  The  Whigs  tried, 
during  a  few  weeks,  to  persuade  themselves  that 
her  majesty  had  acted  only  from  personal  dislike  to 
the  Secretary,  and  that  she  meditated  no  further 
alteration.     But,  early  in  August,  Godolphin  was 

to  surprised  by  a  letter  from  Anne,  which  directed 


200  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

him  to  break  his  white  staff.  Even  after  this 
event,  the  irresolution  or  dissimulation  of  Harley 
kept  up  the  hopes  of  the  Whigs  during  another 
month;  and  then  the  ruin  became  rapid  and  vio- 
lent. The  Parliament  was  dissolved.  The  5 
ministers  were  turned  out.  The  Tories  were 
called  to  office.  The  tide  of  popularity  ran  vio- 
lently in  favor  of  the  High  Church  party.  That 
party,  feeble  in  the  late  House  of  Commons,  was 
now  irresistible.  The  power  which  the  Tories  had  10 
thus  suddenly  acquired,  they  used  with  blind  and 
stupid  ferocity.  The  howl  which  the  whole  pack 
set  up  for  prey  and  for  blood  appalled  even  him 
who  had  roused  and  unchained  them.  When,  at 
this  distance  of  time,  we  calmly  review  the  conduct  15 
of  the  discarded  ministers,  we  cannot  but  feel  a 
movement  of  indignation  at  the  injustice  with 
which  they  were  treated.  No  body  of  men  had 
ever  administered  the  government  with  more 
energy,  ability,  and  moderation;  and  their  success  20 
had  been  proportioned  to  their  wisdom.  They 
had  saved  Holland  and  Germany.  They  had 
humbled  France.  They  had,  as  it  seemed,  all  but 
torn  Spain  from  the  house  of  Bourbon.  They  had 
made  England  the  first  power  in  Europe.  At  95 
home  they  had  united  England  and  Scotland. 
They  had  respected  the  rights  of  conscience  and 
the  liberty  of  the  subject.  They  retired,  leaving 
their  country  at  the  height  of  prosperity  and 
glory.     And  yet  they  were  pursued  to  their  retrofit  ao 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF    ADDISON      20] 

by  such  a  roar  of  obloquy  as  was  never  raised 
against  the  government  which  threw  away  thirteen 
colonies,  or  against  the  government  which  sent  a 
gallant  army  to  perish  in  the  ditches  of  Walcheren. 

5  None  of  the  AVhigs  suffered  more  in  the  general 
wreck  than  Addison.  He  had  just  sustained  some 
heavy  pecuniary  losses,  of  the  nature  of  which  we 
are  imperfectly  informed,  when  his  secretaryship 
was  taken  from  him.     He  had  reason  to  believe 

10  that  he  should  also  be  deprived  of  the  small  Irish 
office  which  he  held  by  patent.  He  had  just 
resigned  his  fellowship.  It  seems  probable  that 
he  had  already  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  to  a  great 
lady,  and  that,  while  his  political  friends  were  in 

is  power,  and  while  his  own  fortunes  were  rising,  he 
had  been,  in  the  phrase  of  the  romances  which 
were  then  fashionable,  permitted  to  hope.  But 
Mr.  Addison  the  ingenious  writer,  and  Mr.  Addi- 
son the  chief  secretary,   were,   in  her  ladyship's 

so  opinion,  two  very  different  persons.  All  these 
calamities  united,  however,  could  not  disturb  the 
serene  cheerfulness  of  a  mind  conscious  of  inno- 
cence, and  rich  in  its  own  wealth.  He  told  his 
friends,  with  smiling  resignation,  that  they  ought 

25  to  admire  his  philosophy ;  that  he  had  lost  at  once 
his  fortune,  his  place,  his  fellowship,  and  his  mis- 
tress ;  that  he  must  think  of  turning  tutor  again ; 
and  yet  that  his  spirits  were  as  good  as  ever. 

He  had  one  consolation.     Of   the  unpopularity 

30  which  his  friends  had  incurred,  he  had  no  share. 


202  "  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

Such  was  the  esteem  with  which  he  was  regarded 
that,  while  the  most  violent  measures  were  taken 
for  the  purpose  of  forcing  Tory  members  on  Whig 
corporations,  he  was  returned  to  Parliament  with- 
out even  a  contest.  Swift,  who  was  now  in  Lon-  5 
don,  and  who  had  already  determined  on  quitting 
the  Whigs,  wrote  to  Stella  in  these  remarkable 
words:  "The  Tories  carry  it  among  the  new  mem- 
bers six  to  one.  Mr.  Addison's  election  has 
passed  easy  and  undisputed;  and  I  believe  if  he  10 
had  a  mind  to  be  king  he  would  hardly  be 
refused." 

The  good  will  with  which  the  Tories  regarded 
Addison  is  the  more  honorable  to  him,  because  it 
had  not  been  purchased  by  any  concession  on  his  lb 
part.  During  the  general  election  he  published  a 
political  journal,  entitled  the  Whig  Examiner. 
Of  that  journal  it  may  be  sufficient  to  say  that 
Johnson,  in  spite  of  his  strong  political  prejudices, 
pronounced  it  to  be  superior  in  wit  to  any  of  20 
Swift's  writings  on  the  other  side.  When  it  ceased 
to  appear,  Swift,  in  a  letter  to  Stella,  expressed  his 
exultation  at  the  death  of  so  formidable  an 
antagonist.  "He  might  well  rejoice,"  says  John- 
son, "at  the  death  of  that  which  he  could  not  have  25 
killed."  "On  no  occasion,"  he  adds,  "was  the 
genius  of  Addison  more  vigorously  exerted,  and  on 
none  did  the  superiority  of  his  powers  more  evi- 
dently appear." 

The  only  use  which   Addison  appears   to  have  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      203 

made  of  the  favor  with  which  he  was  regarded  by 
the  Tories  was  to  save  some  of  his  friends  from  the 
general  ruin  of  the  Whig  party.  He  felt  himself 
to  be  in  a  situation  which  made  it  his  duty  to  take 

5  a  decided  part  in  politics.  But  the  case  of  Steele 
and  of  Ambrose  Philips  was  different.  For 
Philips,  Addison  even  condescended  to  solicit, 
with  what  success  we  have  not  ascertained.  Steele 
held  two  places.     He  was  Gazetteer,  and  he  was 

10  also  a  Commissioner  of  Stamps.  The  Gazette  was 
taken  from  him.  But  he  was  suffered  to  retain 
his  place  in  the  Stamp  Office,  on  an  implied  under- 
standing that  he  should  not  be  active  against  the 
new  government;  and  he  was,  during  more  than 

15  two  years,  induced  by  Addison  to  observe  this 
armistice  with  tolerable  fidelity. 

Isaac  Bickers taff  accordingly  became  silent  upon 
politics,  and  the  article  of  news  which  had  once 
formed  about   one-third  of    his  paper,  altogether 

so  disappeared.  The  Tatler  had  completely  changed 
its  character.  It  was  now  nothing  but  a  series  of 
essays  on  books,  morals,  and  manners.  Steele 
therefore  resolved  to  bring  it  to  a  close,  and  to 
commence  a  new  work  on  an  improved  plan.     It 

25  was  announced  that  this  new  work  would  be  pub- 
lished daily.  The  undertaking  was  generally 
regarded  as  bold,  or  rather  rash ;  but  the  event 
amply  justified  the  confidence  with  which  Steele 
relied  on  the  fertility  of   Addison's  genius.     On 

30  the  second  of  January,    1711,   appeared  the  last 


204  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

Tatler.  At  the  beginning  of  March  following 
appeared  the  first  of  an  incomparable  series  of 
papers,  containing  observations  on  life  and  liter- 
ature by  an  imaginary  spectator. 

The  Spectator  himself  was  conceived  and  drawn    5 
by  Addison;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  doubt  that  the 
portrait  was  meant  to  be  in  some  features  a  like- 
ness of  the  painter.     The  Spectator  is  a  gentleman 
who,  after  passing  a  studious  youth  at  the  univer- 
sity,   has    travelled   on   classic   ground,   and   has  10 
bestowed   much   attention    on    curious  points    of 
antiquity.     He  has,  on  his  return,  fixed  his  resi- 
dence in  London,  and  has  observed  all  the  forms  of 
life  which  are  to  be  found  in  that  great  city ;  has 
daily  listened  to  the  wits  of  Will's,  has  smoked  is 
with   the   philosophers  of  the   Grecian,    and   has 
mingled  with  the  parsons  at  Child's,  and  with  the 
politicians  at  the  St.  James's.     In  the  morning,  he 
often  listens  to  the  hum  of  the  Exchange ;  in  the 
evening,  his  face  is  constantly  to  be  seen  in  the  pit  20 
of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.     But  an  insurmountable 
bashf ulness  prevents  him  from  opening  his  mouth 
except  in  a  small  circle  of  intimate  friends. 

These  friends  were  first  sketched  by  Steele. 
Four  of  the  club,  the  templar,  the  clergyman,  the  25 
soldier,  and  the  merchant,  were  uninteresting  fig- 
ures, fit  only  for  a  background.  But  the  other 
two,  an  old  country  baronet  and  an  old  town  rake, 
though  not  delineated  with  a  very  delicate  pencil, 
had  some  good  strokes.     Addison  took  the  rude  30 


LIFE   AND   "WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      205 

outlines  into  his  own  hands,  retouched  them, 
colored  them,  and  is  in  truth  the  creator  of  the  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  and  the  "Will  Honeycomb  with 
whom  we  are  all  familial'. 

5  The  plan  of  the  Spectator  must  be  allowed  to  be 
both  original  and  eminently  happy.  Every  valu- 
able essay  in  the  series  may  be  read  with  pleasure 
separately ;  yet  the  five  or  six  hundred  essays  form 
a  whole,  and  a  whole  which  has  the  interest  of  a 

10  novel.  It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  at  that 
time  no  novel,  giving  a  lively  and  powerful  picture 
of  the  common  life  and  manners  of  England,  had 
appeared.  Richardson  was  working  as  a  composi- 
tor.    Fielding  was  robbing  birds'  nests.     Smollett 

is  was  not  yet  born.  The  narrative,  therefore,  which 
connects  together  the  Spectator's  essays,  gave  to 
our  ancestors  their  first  taste  of  an  exquisite  and 
untried  pleasure.  That  narrative  was  indeed  con- 
structed with  no  art  or   labor.     The  events  were 

20  such  events  as  occur  every  day.  Sir  Roger  comes 
up  to  town  to  see  Eugenio,  as  the  worthy  baronet 
always  calls  Prince  Eugene,  goes  with  the  Specta- 
tor on  the  water  to  Spring  Gardens,  walks  among 
the  tombs  in  the  Abbey,  and  is  frightened  by  the 

25  Mohawks,  but  conquers  his  apprehension  so  far  as 
to  go  to  the  theatre  when  the  Distressed  Mother  is 
acted.  The  Spectator  pays  a  visit  in  the  summer 
to  Coverley  Hall,  is  charmed  with  the  old  house, 
the  old  butler,  and  the  old  chaplain,  eats  a  jack 

30  caught   by  Will  Wimble,  rides  to  the  assizes,  and 


206  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

hears  a  point  of  law  discussed  by  Tom  Touchy. 
At  last  a  letter  from  the  honest  butler  brings  to  the 
club   the    news   that    Sir    Roger   is    dead.     Will 
Honeycomb  marries  and  reforms  at  sixty.     The 
club    breaks   up;    and  the   Spectator   resigns   his    & 
functions.     Such  events  can  hardly  be  said  to  form 
a  plot ;  yet  they  are  related  with  such  truth,  such 
grace,  such  wit,  such  humor,   such  pathos,   such 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  such  knowledge  of 
the  ways  of  the  world,  that  they  charm  us  on  the  10 
hundredth  perusal.     We  have  not  the  least  doubt 
that  if  Addison  had  written  a  novel,  on  an  exten- 
sive plan,  it  would  have  been  superior  to  any  that 
we   possess.     As   it   is,  he   is  entitled  to  be  con- 
sidered not  only  as  the  greatest  of  the  English  is 
essayists,  but  as  the  forerunner  of  the  great  Eng- 
lish novelists. 

We  say  this  of  Addison  alone;  for  Addison  is 
the  Spectator.  About  three-sevenths  of  the  work 
are  his;  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,  that  his  20 
worst  essay  is  as  good  as  the  best  essay  of  any  of 
his  coadjutors.  His  best  essays  approach  near  to 
absolute  perfection;  nor  is  their  excellence  more 
wonderful  than  their  variety.  His  invention  never 
seems  to  flag;  nor  is  he  ever  under  the  necessity  of  2b 
repeating  himself,  or  of  wearing  out  a  subject. 
There  are  no  dregs  in  his  wine.  He  regales  us 
after  the  fashion  of  that  prodigal  nabob  who  held 
that  there  was  only  one  good  glass  in  a  bottle.  As 
soon  as  we  have  tasted  the  first  sparkling  foam  of  30 


LIFE    AND    WHITINGS   OF   ADDISON       207 

a  jest,  it  is  withdrawn,  and  a  fresh  draught  of 
nectar  is  at  our  lips.  On  the  Monday,  we  have  an 
allegory  as  lively  and  ingenious  as  Lncian'a  Auc- 
tion of  Lives ;  on  the  Tuesday,  an  Eastern  apologue 

s  as  richlv  colored  as  the  Tales  of  Scheherezade ;  on 
the  Wednesday,  a  character  described  with  the 
skill  of  La  Bruyere;  on  the  Thursday,  a  scene 
from  common  life,  equal  to  the  best  chapters  in 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield;  on  the  Friday,  some  sly 

10  Horatian    pleasantry   on    fashionable    follies, — on 

hoops,     patches,     or    puppet-shows;  and    on    the 

Saturday,  a  religious  meditation,  which  will  bear  a 

comparison  with  the  finest  passages  in  Massillon. 

It  is  dangerous  to  select  where  there  is  so  much 

15  that  deserves  the  highest  praise.  We  will  venture, 
however,  to  say,  that  any  person  who  wishes  to 
form  a  just  notion  of  the  extent  and  variety  of 
Addison's  powers,  will  do  well  to  read  at  one  sit- 
ting the  following  papers :  The  two  Visits  to  the 

20  Abbey,  the  visit  to  the  Exchange,  the  Journal  of 
the  Retired  Citizen,  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  the 
Transmigrations  of  Pug  the  Monkey,  and  the 
Death  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 

The  least  valuable  of  Addison's  contributions  to 

25  the  Spectator  are,  in  the  judgment  of  our  age,  his 
critical  papers.  Yet  his  critical  papers  are  always 
luminous,  and  often  ingenious.  The  very  worst 
of  them  must  be  regarded  as  creditable  to  him, 
when  the  character  of  the  school  in  which  he  had 

30  been    trained    is  fairly   considered.     The  best  of 


208  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

them  were  much  too  good  for  his  readers.  In 
truth,  he  was  not  so  far  behind  our  generation  as 
he  was  before  his  own.  No  essays  in  the  Spectator 
were  more  censured  and  derided  than  those  in 
which  he  raised  his  voice  against  the  contempt  5 
with  which  our  fine  old  ballads  were  regarded,  and 
showed  the  scoffers  that  the  same  gold  which, 
burnished  and  polished,  gives  lustre  to  the  iEneid 
and  the  Odes  of  Horace,  is  mingled  with  the  rude 
dross  of  Chevy  Chase.  10 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  success  of  the  Spectator 
should  have  been  such  as  no  similar  work  has  ever 
obtained.     The  number  of  copies  daily  distributed 
was   at    first     three    thousand.     It    subsequently 
increased,   and   had  risen  to  near  four  thousand  15 
when  the  stamp  tax  was  imposed.     That  tax  was 
fatal  to  a  crowd  of  journals.     The  Spectator,  how- 
ever,   stood   its   ground,    doubled  its   price,   and, 
though  its  circulation  fell  off,  still  yielded  a  large 
revenue  both  to  the  state  and  to  the  authors.     For  20 
particular  papers,  the  demand  was  immense;    of 
some,    it   is   said,    twenty   thousand    copies   were 
required.     But   this   was   not   all.     To  have   the 
Spectator  served  up  every  morning  with  the  bohea 
and  rolls  was  a  luxury  for  the  few.     The  majority  25 
were    content    to    wait    till    essays    enough    had 
appeared  to  form  a  volume.     Ten  thousand  copies   . 
of  each  volume  were  immediately  taken  off,  and 
new  editions  were  'called  for.     It  must  be  remem- 
bered, that  the  population   of   England  was  then  so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      209 

hardly  a  third  of  what  it  now  is.  The  number  of 
Englishmen  who  were  in  the  habit  of  reading,  was 
probably  not  a  sixth  of  what  it  now  is.  A  shop- 
keeper   or    a   farmer   who   found   any  pleasure  in 

5  literature,  was  a  rarity.  Nay,  there  was  doubtless 
more  than  one  knight  of  the  shire  whose  country 
seat  did  not  contain  ten  books,  receipt-books  and 
books  on  farriery  included.  In  these  circumstan- 
ces, the  sale  of  the  Spectator  must  be  considered  as 

10  indicating  a  popularity  quite  as  great  as  that  of  the 
most  successful  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Mr. 
Dickens  in  our  own  time. 

At  the  close  of  1712  the   Spectator  ceased  to 
appear.     It  was  probably  felt  that  the  shortfaced 

15  gentleman  and  his  club  had  been  long  enough 
before  the  town ;  and  that  it  was  time  to  withdraw 
them,  and  to  replace  them  by  a  new  set  of  charac- 
ters. In  a  few  weeks  the  first  number  of  the 
Guardian  was  published.     But  the  Guardian  was 

20  unfortunate  both  in  its  birth  and  in  its  death.  It 
began  in  dulness  and  disappeared  in  a  tempest  of 
faction.  The  original  plan  was  bad.  Addison 
contributed  nothing  till  sixty-six  numbers  had 
appeared ;  and  it  was  then  impossible  to  make  the 

25  Guardian  what  the  Spectator  had  been.  Nestor 
Ironside  and  the  Miss  Lizards  were  people  to  whom 
even  he  could  impart  no  interest.  He  could  only 
furnish  some  excellent  little  essays,  both  serious 
and  comic;  and  this  he  did. 

30       Why  Addison  gave  no  assistance  to  the  Guard- 


210  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

ian  during  the  first  two  months  of  its  existence, 
is  a  question  which  has  puzzled  the  editors  and 
biographers,  but  which  seems  to  us  to  admit  of  a 
very  easy  solution.  He  was  then  engaged  in  bring- 
ing his  Cato  on  the  stage.  5 

The  first  four  acts  of  this  drama  had  been  lying 
in  his  desk  since  his  return  from  Italy.  His 
modest  and  sensitive  nature  shrank  from  the  risk  of 
a  public  and  shameful  failure;  and,  though  all 
who  saw  the  manuscript  were  loud  in  praise,  some  10 
thought  it  possible  that  an  audience  might  become 
impatient  even  of  very  good  rhetoric,  and  advised 
Addison  to  print  the  play  without  hazarding  a 
representation.  At  length,  after  many  fits  of 
apprehension,  the  poet  yielded  to  the  urgency  of  is 
his  political  friends,  who  hoped  that  the  public 
would  discover  some  analogy  between  the  followers 
of  Caesar  and  the  Tories,  between  Sempronius  and 
the  apostate  Whigs,  between  Cato,  straggling  to 
the  last  for  the  liberties  of  Rome,  and  the  band  of  20 
patriots  who  still  stood  firm  round  Halifax  and 
Wharton. 

Addison  gave  the  play  to  the  managers  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  without  stipulating  for  any  advan- 
tage to  himself.  They,  therefore,  thought  them-  25 
selves  bound  to  spare  no  cost  in  scenery  and 
dresses.  The  decorations,  it  is  true,  would  not 
have  pleased  the  skilful  eye  of  Mr.  Macready. 
Juba's  waistcoat  blazed  with  gold  lace;  Marcia'a 
hoop  was  worthy  of  a  duchess  on  the  birthday :  and  so 


LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      211 

(  ato  wore  a  wig  worth  fifty  guineas.  The  pro- 
logue was  written  by  Pope,  and  is  undoubtedly  a 
dignified  and  spirited  composition.  The  part  of 
the  hero  was  excellently  played  by  Booth.     Steele 

5  undertook  to  pack  a  house.  The  boxes  were  in  a 
blaze  with  the  stars  of  the  Peers  in  Opposition. 
The  pit  was  crowded  with  attentive  and  friendly 
listeners  from  the  Inns  of  Court  and  the  literary 
coffee-houses.     Sir  Gilbert  Heathcote,  Governor  of 

10  the  Bank  of  England,  was  at  the  head  of  a  power- 
ful body  of  auxiliaries  from  the  city,  warm  men 
and  true  Whigs,  but  better  known  at  Jonathan's 
and  Garraway's  than  in  the  haunts  of  wits  and 
critics. 

is  These  precautions  were  quite  superfluous.  The 
Tories,  as  a  body,  regarded  Addison  with  no  un- 
kind feelings.  Nor  was  it  for  their  interest,  pro- 
fessing, as  they  did,  profound  reverence  for  law 
and  prescription,  and  abhorrence  both  of  popular 

20  insurrections  and  of  standing  armies,  to  appropri- 
ate to  themselves  reflections  thrown  on  the  great 
military  chief  and  demagogue,  who,  with  the  sup- 
port of  the  legions  and  of  the  common  people, 
subverted  all  the  ancient  institutions  of  his  coun- 

25  try.  Accordingly,  every  shout  that  was  raised  by 
the  members  of  the  Kit  Cat  was  echoed  by  the 
High  Churchmen  of  the  October;  and  the  curtain 
at  length  fell  amidst  thunders  of  unanimous 
applause. 

30       The  delight  and  admiration  of  the  town  were 


212  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

described  by  the  Guardian  in  terms  which  we 
might  attribute  to  partiality,  were  it  not  that  the 
Examiner,  the  organ  of  the  ministry,  held  similar 
language.  The  Tories,  indeed,  found  much  to 
sneer  at  in  the  conduct  of  their  opponents.  5 
Steele  had  on  this,  as  on  other  occasions,  shown 
more  zeal  than  taste  or  judgment.  The  honest 
citizens  who  marched  under  the  orders  of  Sir 
Gibby,  as  he  was  facetiously  called,  probably  knew 
better  when  to  buy  and  when  to  sell  stock  than  10 
when  to  clap  and  when  to  hiss  at  a  play,  and 
incurred  some  ridicule  by  making  the  hypocritical 
Sempronius  their  favorite,  and  by  giving  to  his 
insincere  rants  louder  plaudits  than  they  bestowed 
on  the  temperate  eloquence  of  Cato.  Wharton,  15 
too,  who  had  the  incredible  effrontery  to  applaud 
the  lines  about  flying  from  prosperous  vice  and 
from  the  power  of  impious  men  to  a  private  station, 
did  not  escape  the  sarcasms  of  those  who  justly 
thought  that  he  could  fly  from  nothing  more  20 
vicious  or  impious  than  himself.  The  epilogue, 
which  was  written  by  Garth,  a  zealous  Whig,  was 
severely  and  not  unreasonably  censured  as  ignoble 
and  out  of  place.  But  Addison  was  described, 
even  by  the  bitterest  Tory  writers,  as  a  gentleman  25 
of  wit  and  virtue,  in  whose  friendship  many  per- 
sons of  both  parties  were  happy,  and  whose  name 
ought  not  to  be  mixed  up  with  factious  squabbles. 
Of  the  jests  by  which  the  triumph  of  the  Whig 
party  was  disturbed,  the  most  severe  and  happy  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      213 

was  Bolingbroke's.  Between  two  acts  lie  sent  for 
Booth  to  his  box,  and  presented  him,  before  the 
whole  theatre,  with  a  purse  of  fifty  guineas  for 
defending  the  cause  of  liberty  so  well  against  a 

5  perpetual  Dictator.  This  was  a  pungent  allusion 
to  the  attempt  which  Marlborough  had  made,  not 
long  before  his  fall,  to  obtain  a  patent  creating 
him  Captain  General  for  life. 

It   was    April;  and    in   April,   a   hundred    and 

10  thirty  years  ago,  the  London  season  was  thought  to 
be  far  advanced.  During  a  whole  month,  how- 
ever, Cato  was  performed  to  overflowing  houses, 
and  brought  into  the  treasury  of  the  theatre  twice 
the  gains  of  an  ordinary  spring.     In  the  summer 

15  the  Drury  Lane  company  went  down  to  the  Act  at 
Oxford,  and  there,  before  an  audience  which 
retained  an  affectionate  remembrance  of  Addison's 
accomplishments  and  virtues,  his  tragedy  was 
enacted    during    several    days.       The    gownsmen 

20  began  to  besiege  the  theatre  in  the  forenoon,  and 
by  one  in  the  afternoon  all  the  seats  were  filled. 

About  the  merits  of  the  piece  which  had  so 
extraordinary  an  effect,  the  public,  we  suppose, 
has  made  up  its  mind.     To  compare  it  with  the 

2.1  masterpieces  of  the  Attic  stage,  with  the  great 
English  dramas  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  or  even 
with  the  productions  of  Schiller's  manhood,  would 
be  absurd  indeed:  yet  it  contains  excellent  dia- 
logue and  declamation,  and,  among  plays  fashioned 

30  on   the  French   model,  must   be  allowed   to  rank 


214  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

high, — not  indeed  with  Athalie  or  Saul,  but,  we 
think,  not  below  Cinna,  and  certainly  above  any 
other  English  tragedy  of  the  same  school;  above 
many  of  the  plays  of  Corneille ;  above  many  of  the 
plays  of  Voltaire  and  Alfieri;  and  above  some  5 
plays  of  Racine.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  have  little 
doubt  that  Cato  did  as  much  as  the  Tatters,  Spec- 
tators, and  Freeholders  united,  to  raise  Addison's 
fame  among  his  contemporaries.  \ 

The  modesty  and  good  nature  of  the  successful  10 
dramatist  had  tamed  even  the  malignity  of  faction. 
But  literary  envy,  it  should  seem,  is  a  fiercer  pas- 
sion than  party  spirit.     It  was  by  a  zealous  AYhig 
that  the  fiercest  attack  on  the  Whig  tragedy  was 
made.     John  Dennis  published  Remarks  on  Cato,   15 
which  were  written  with  some  acuteness  and  with 
much  coarseness  and  asperity.     Addison   neither 
defended  himself  nor  retaliated.     On  many  points 
he  had  an  excellent  defence,  and  nothing  would 
have  been  easier  than  to  retaliate ;  for  Dennis  had  20 
written  bad  odes,  bad  tragedies,  bad  comedies:  he 
had,  moreover,  a  larger  share  than  most  men  of 
those   infirmities   and  eccentricities   which   excite 
laughter;  and  Addison's  power  of  turning  either 
an  absurd  book  or  an  absurd  man  into  ridicule  was  25 
unrivalled.     Addison,  however,  serenely  conscious 
of  his  superiority,  looked  with  pity  on  his  assail- 
ant, whose  temper,  naturally  irritable  and  gloomy, 
had  been  soured  by  want,  by  controversy,  and  by 
literary  failures.  30 


LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      215 

But  among  the  young  candidates  for  Addison's 
favor  there  was  one  distinguished  by  talents  from 
the  rest,  and  distinguished,  we  fear,  not  less  by 
malignity  and  insincerity.     Pope  was  only  twenty  - 

5  five.  But  his  powers  had  expanded  to  their  full 
maturity ;  and  his  best  j^oem,  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  had  recently  been  published.  Of  his  genius 
Addison  had  always  expressed  high  admiration. 
But    Addison   had   early   discerned,  what    might, 

10  indeed,  have  been  discerned  by  an  eye  less  pene- 
trating than  his,  that  the  diminutive,  crooked, 
sickly  boy  was  eager  to  revenge  himself  on  society 
for  the  unkindness  of  nature.  In  the  Spectator 
the  Essay  on  Criticism  had  been  praised  with  cor- 

15  dial  warmth;  but  a  gentle  hint  had  been  added 
that  the  writer  of  so  excellent  a  poem  would  have 
done  well  to  avoid  ill-natured  personalities.  Pope, 
though  evidently  more  galled  by  the  censure  than 
gratified  by  the  praise,  returned  thanks  for  the 

20  admonition,  and  promised  to  profit  by  it.  The 
two  writers  continued  to  exchange  civilities,  coun- 
sel, and  small  good  offices.  Addison  publicly 
extolled  Pope's  miscellaneous  pieces,  and  Pope 
furnished  Addison  with  a  prologue.     This  did  not 

25  last  long.  Pope  hated  Dennis,  whom  he  had 
injured  without  provocation.  The  appearance  of 
the  Remarks  on  Cato  gave  the  irritable  poet  an 
opportunity  of  venting  his  malice  under  the  show 
of  friendship;  and  such  an  opportunity  could  not 

30  but  be  welcome  to  a  nature  which  was  implacable 


21G  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

in  enmity,  and  which  always  preferred  the  tortuous 
to  the  straight  path.  He  published,  accordingly, 
the  Narrative  of  the  Frenzy  of  John  Dennis.  But 
Pope  had  mistaken  his  powers.  He  was  a  great 
master  of  invective  and  sarcasm;  he  could  dissect  5 
a  character  in  terse  and  sonorous  couplets,  brilliant 
with  antithesis;  but  of  dramatic  talent  he  was 
altogether  destitute.  If  he  had  written  a  lampoon 
on  Dennis,  such  as  that  on  Atticus  or  that  on 
Sporus,  the  old  grumbler  would  have  been  crushed.  10 
But  Pope  writing  dialogue  resembled — to  borrow 
Horace's  imagery  and  his  own — a  wolf,  which, 
instead  of  biting,  should  take  to  kicking,  or  a 
monkey  which  should  try  to  sting.  The  Narrative 
is  utterly  contemptible.  Of  argument  there  is  not  is 
even  the  show,  and  the  jests  are  such  as,  if  they 
were  introduced  into  a  farce,  would  call  forth  the 
hisses  of  the  shilling  gallery.  Dennis  raves  about 
the  drama,  and  the  nurse  thinks  that  he  is  calling 
for  a  dram.  "There  is,"  he  cries,  "no  peripetia  20 
in  the  tragedy,  no  change  of  fortune,  no  change  at 
all."  "Pray,  good  sir,  be  not  angry,"  says  the 
old  woman,  "I'll  fetch  change."  This  is  not 
exactly  the  pleasantry  of  Addison. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Addison  saw  through  25 
this  officious  zeal,  and  felt  himself  deeply  aggrieved 
by  it.  So  foolish  and  spiteful  a  pamphlet  could  do 
him  no  good,  and,  if  he  were  thought  to  have  any 
hand  in  it,  must  do  him  harm.  Gifted  with 
incomparable  powers  of    ridicule,   he  had  never,   30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      217 

even  in  self-defence,  used  those  powers  inhumanly 
or  uncourteously ;  and  he  was  not  disposed  to  let 
others  make  his  fame  and  his  interests  a  pretext 
under  which  they  might  commit  outrages  from 
5  which  he  had  himself  constantly  abstained.  He 
accordingly  declared  that  he  had  no  concern  in  the 
Narrative,  that  he  disapproved  of  it,  and  that  if 
he  answered  the  Remarks,  he  would  answer  them 
like  a  gentleman;  and  he  took  care  to  communi- 

10  cate  this  to  Dennis.     Pope  was  bitterly  mortified, 

and  to  this  transaction  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe  the 

hatred  with  which  he  ever  after  regarded  Addison. 

In  September,   1713,   the    Guardian  ceased  to 

appear.     Steele  had  gone  mad  about  politics.     A 

15  general  election  had  just  taken  place :  he  had  been 
chosen  member  for  Stockbridge,  and  he  fully 
expected  to  play  a  first  part  in  Parliament.  The 
immense  success  of  the  Tatler  and  Spectator  had 
turned  his  head.     He  had  been  the  editor  of  both 

20  those  papers,  and  was  not  aware  how  entirely  they 
owed  their  influence  and  popularity  to  the  genius 
of  his  friend.  His  spirits,  always  violent,  were 
now  excited  by  vanity,  ambition,  and  faction,  to 
such  a  pitch  that  he  every  day  committed  some 

25  offence  against  good  sense  and  good  taste.  All  the 
discreet  and  moderate  members  of  his  own  party 
regretted  and  condemned  his  folly.  "I  am  in  a 
thousand  troubles,"  Addison  wrote,  "about  poor 
Dick,  and  wish  that  his  zeal  for  the  public  may  not 

so  be  ruinous  to  himself.     But  he  has  sent  me  word 


218  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

that  he  is  determined  to  go  on,  and  that  any  advice 
I  may  give  him  in  this  particular  will  have  no 
weight  with  him." 

Steele  set  up  a  political  paper  called  the  Eng- 
lishman, which,  as  it  was  not  supported  by  contri-    5 
butions  from  Addison,  completely  failed.     By  this 
work,  by  some  other  writings  of  the  same  kind, 
and  by  the  airs  which  he  gave  himself  at  the  first 
meeting  of  the  new  Parliament,  he  made  the  Tories 
so  angry  that  they  determined  to  expel  him.     The   10 
Whigs  stood  by  him  gallantly,  but  were  tillable  to 
save  him.     The  vote  of  expulsion  was  regarded  by 
all  dispassionate  men  as  a  tyrannical  exercise  of  the 
power  of  the  majority.     But  Steele's  violence  and 
folly,  though  they  by  no  means  justified  the  steps   15 
which  his  enemies  took,  had  completely  disgusted 
his  friends ;  nor  did  he  ever  regain  the  place  which 
he  had  held  in  the  public  estimation. 

Addison  about  this  time  conceived  the  design  of 
adding  an  eighth  volume  to  the  Spectator.  In  30 
June,  1714,  the  first  number  of  the  new  series 
appeared,  and  during  about  six  months  three 
papers  were  published  weekly.  Nothing  can  be 
more  striking  than  the  contrast  between  the  Eng- 
lishman and  the  eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator,  25 
between  Steele  without  Addison  and  Addison  with- 
out Steele.  The  Englishman  is  forgotten:  the 
eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator  contains,  perhaps, 
the  finest  essays,  both  serious  and  playful,  in  the 
English  language.  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      219 

Before  this  volume  was  completed,  the  death  of 
Anne  produced  an  entire  change  in  the  administra- 
tion of  public  affairs.  The  blow  fell  suddenly. 
It  found  the  Tory  party  distracted    by  internal 

5  feuds,  and  unprepared  for  any  great  effort. 
Harley  had  just  been  disgraced.  Bolingbroke,  it 
was  supposed,  would  be  the  chief  minister.  But 
the  Queen  was  on  her  death-bed  before  the  white 
staff  had  been  given,  and  her  last  public  act  was  to 

10  deliver  it  with  a  feeble  hand  to  the  Duke  of 
Shrewsbury.  The  emergency  produced  a  coalition 
between  all  sections  of  public  men  who  were 
attached  to  the  Protestant  succession.  George  the 
First  was  proclaimed  without  opposition.     A  coun- 

15  cil,  in  which  the  leading  whigs  had  seats,  took  the 
direction  of  affairs  till  the  new  King  should  arrive. 
The  first  act  of  the  Lords  Justices  was  to  appoint 
Addison  their  secretary. 

There  is  an  idle  tradition  that  he  was  directed 

20  to  prepare  a  letter  to  the  King,  that  he  could  not 
satisfy  himself  as  to  the  style  of  this  composition, 
and  that  the  Lords  Justices  called  in  a  clerk,  who 
at  once  did  what  was  wanted.  It  is  not  strange 
that  a  story  so  flattering  to  mediocrity  should  be 

25  popular;  and  we  are  sorry  to  deprive  dunces  of 
their  consolation.  But  the  truth  must  be  told. 
It  was  well  observed  by  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
whose  knowledge  of  these  times  was  unequalled, 
that    Addison    never,    in  any   official    document, 

!    affected  wit  or  eloquence,  and  that  his  despatches 


220  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

are,  without  exception,  remarkable  for  unpretend- 
ing simplicity.     Everybody  who  knows  with  what 
ease  Addison's  finest  essays  were  produced,  must 
be  convinced  that,  if  well-turned  phrases  had  been 
wanted,  he  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  finding    5 
them.     We  are,  however,  inclined  to  believe,  that 
the  story  is  not  absolutely  without  a  foundation. 
It  may  well  be  that  Addison  did  not  know,  till  he 
had  consulted  experienced  clerks  who  remembered 
the  times  when  William  the  Third  was  absent  on   10 
the   Continent,   in  what   form  a  letter  from   the 
Council  of  Regency  to  the  King  ought  to  be  drawn. 
We  think  it  very  likely  that  the  ablest  statesmen  of 
our  time,   Lord  John    Russell,    Sir  Robert   Peel, 
Lord  Palmerston,  for  example,  would,   in  similar   15 
circumstances,  be  found  quite  as  ignorant.     Every 
office  has  some  little  mysteries  which  the  dullest 
man  may  learn  with  a  little  attention,  and  which 
the  greatest  man  cannot  possibly  know  by  intui- 
tion.    One  paper  must  be  signed  by  the  chief  of  20 
the  department ;  another  by  his  deputy ;  to  a  third 
the  royal  sign-manual  is  necessary.     One  commu- 
nication is  to  be   registered,  and   another  is  not. 
One  sentence  must  be  in  black  ink,  and  another 
in  red  ink.     If  the  ablest   Secretary  for    Ireland  25 
were   moved   to   the   India    Board,  if    the  ablest 
President  of  the  India  Board  were  moved  to  the 
War    Office,    he    would    require    instruction    on 
points    like   these;   and    we    do  not    doubt    that 
Addison   required   such  instruction   when  he  be-  80 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      221 

came,  for  the  first   time,  Secretary  to  the  Lords 
Justices. 

George  the  First  took  possession  of  his  kingdom 
without  opposition.     A  new  ministry  was  formed, 

5  and  a  new  Parliament  favorable  to  the  WhigB 
chosen.  Sunderland  was  appointed  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant of  Ireland;  and  Addison  again  went  to  Dublin 
as  Chief  Secretary. 

At  Dublin  Swift  resided;  and  there  was  much 

10  speculation  about  the  way  in  which  the  Dean  and 
the  Secretary  would  behave  towards  each  other. 
The  relations  which  existed  between  these  remark- 
able men  form  an  interesting  and  pleasing  portion 
of  literary  history.     They  had  early  attached  them- 

li-  selves  to  the  same  political  party  and  to  the  same 
patrons.  While  Anne's  Whig  ministry  was  in 
power,  the  visits  of  Swift  to  London  and  the 
official  residence  of  Addison  in  Ireland  had  given 
them  opportunities  of  knowing  each  other.     They 

20  were  the  two  shrewdest  observers  of  their  age.  But 
their  observations  on  each  other  had  led  them  to 
favorable  conclusions.  Swift  did  full  justice  to 
the  rare  powers  of  conversation  which  were  latent 
under  the  bashful  deportment  of  Addison.     Addi- 

25  son,  on  the  other  hand,  discerned  much  good 
nature  under  the  severe  look  and  manner  of  Swift; 
and,  indeed,  the  Swift  of  1708  and  the  Swift  of 
1738  were  two  very  different  men. 

But    the   paths    of    the   two   friends    diverged 

30  widely.     The    Whig    statesmen    loaded    Addison 


222  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

with  solid  benefits.  They  praised  Swift,  asked 
him  to  dinner,  and  did  nothing  more  for  him. 
His  profession  laid  them  under  a  difficulty.  In 
the  state  they  could  not  promote  him ;  and  they 
had  reason  to  fear  that,  by  bestowing  preferment  5 
in  the  church  on  the  author  of  the  Tale  of  a  Tub, 
they  might  give  scandal  to  the  public,  which  had 
no  high  opinion  of  their  orthodoxy.  He  did  not 
make  fair  allowance  for  the  difficulties  which  pre- 
vented Halifax  and  Somers  from  serving  him,  10 
thought  himself  an  ill-used  man,  sacrificed  honor 
and  consistency  to  revenge,  joined  the  Tories,  and 
became  their  most  formidable  champion.  He 
soon  found,  however,  that  his  old  friends  were 
less  to  blame  than  he  had  supposed.  The  dislike  is 
with  which  the  Queen  and  the  heads  of  the  church 
regarded  him  was  insurmountable ;  and  it  was  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  obtained  an  ecclesias- 
tical dignity  of  no  great  value,  on  condition  of 
fixing  his  residence  in  a  country  which  he  de-  20 
tested. 

Difference  of  political  opinion  had  produced,  not 
indeed  a  quarrel,  but  a  coolness  between  Swift  and 
Addison.  They  at  length  ceased  altogether  to  see 
each  other.  Yet  there  was  between  them  a  tacit  25 
compact  like  that  between  the  hereditary  guests  in 
the  Iliad : — 

'Ey^ea  6'  aAATjAwv  aAetojuefla  Kai  5t'  o/xiKov 

IIoAAoi  p.ci>  yap  e/uol  Tpcies  *AeiTdi  r    tiriKovpoi. 

Kreivttv,  ov  ks  0eo?  ye  nopy  Kai  iro<rai  Kiyettt,  80 

JIoAAol  8'  av  coi  'A\atoi,  ivaipip.ev  ov  Ace  Svvrjai- 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      223 

It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  who  calumniated 
and  insulted  nobody,  should  not  have  calumniated 
or  insulted  Swift.  But  it  is  remarkable  that 
Swift,    to   whom   neither   genius   nor   virtue   was 

5  sacred,  and  who  generally  seemed  to  find,  like  most 
other  renegades,  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  attacking 
old  friends,  should  have  shown  so  much  respect 
and  tenderness  to  Addison. 

Fortune  had  now  changed.     The  accession  of 

10  the  house  of  Hanover  had  secured  in  England  the 
liberties  of  the  people,  and  in  Ireland  the  dominion 
of  the  Protestant  caste.  To  that  caste  Swift  was 
more  odious  than  any  other  man.  He  was  hooted 
and  even  pelted  in  the  streets  of    Dublin;    and 

15  could  not  venture  to  ride  along  the  strand  for  his 
health  without  the  attendance  of  armed  servants. 
Many  whom  he  had  formerly  served  now  libelled 
and  insulted  him.  At  this  time  Addison  arrived. 
He  had  been  advised  not  to  show  the  smallest  civil- 

20  ity  to  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  He  had  an- 
swered, with  admirable  spirit,  that  it  might  be 
necessary  for  men  whose  fidelity  to  their  party  was 
suspected,  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  political 
opponents;  but  that  one  who  had  been  a  steady 

25  Whig  in  the  worst  times  might  venture,  when  the 
good  cause  was  triumphant,  to  shake  hands  with 
an  old  friend  who  was  one  of  the  vanquished  Tories. 
His  kindness  was  soothing  to  the  proud  and  cruelly 
wounded  spirit  of  Swift ;  and  the  two  great  satirists 

30  resumed  their  habits  of  friendly  intercourse. 


224  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

Those  associates  of  Addison  whose  political 
opinions  agreed  with  his  shared  his  good  fortune. 
He  took  Tickell  with  him  to  Ireland.  He  pro- 
cured for  Budgell  a  lucrative  place  in  the  same 
kingdom.  Ambrose  Philips  was  provided  for  in  5 
England.  Steele  had  injured  himself  so  much  by 
his  eccentricity  and  perverseness,  that  he  obtained 
but  a  very  small  part  of  what  he  thought  his  due. 
He  was,  however,  knighted;  he  had  a  place  in  the 
household;  and  he  subsequently  received  other  10 
marks  of  favor  from  the  court. 

Addison  did  not  remain  long  in  Ireland.  In 
1715  he  quitted  his  secretaryship  for  a  seat  at  the 
Board  of  Trade.  In  the  same  year  his  comedy  of 
the  Drummer  was  brought  on  the  stage.  The  is 
name  of  the  author  was  not  announced;  the  piece 
was  coldly  received;  and  some  critics  have  ex- 
pressed a  doubt  whether  it  were  really  Addison's. 
To  us  the  evidence,  both  external  and  internal, 
seems  decisive.  It  is  not  in  Addison's  best  man-  20 
ner ;  but  it  contains  numerous  passages  which  no 
other  writer  known  to  us  could  have  produced.  It 
was  again  performed  after  Addison's  death,  and, 
being  known  to  be  his,  was  loudly  applauded. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1715,  while  the  25 
Rebellion  was  still  raging  in  Scotland,  Addison 
published  the  first  number  of  a  paper  called  the 
Freeholder.  Among  his  political  works  the  Free- 
holder is  entitled  to  the  first  place.  Even  in  the 
Spectator  there  are  few  serious  papers  nobler  than  x 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      225 

the  character  of  his  friend  Lord  Somers,  and  cer- 
tainly no  satirical  papers  superior  to  those  in  which 
the  Tory  fox-hunter  is  introduced.  This  charac- 
ter is  the  original  of  Squire  AVestern,  and  is  drawn 

5  with  all  Fielding's  force,  and  with  a  delicacy  of 
which  Fielding  was  altogether  destitute.  As  none 
of  Addison's  works  exhibits  stronger  marks  of  his 
genius  than  the  Freeholder,  so  none  does  more 
honor  to  his  moral  character.     It  is  difficult  to 

10  extol  too  highly  the  candor  and  humanity  of  a 
political  writer  whom  even  the  excitement  of  civil 
war  cannot  hurry  into  unseemly  violence.  Oxford, 
it  is  well  known,  was  then  the  stronghold  of  Tory- 
ism.    The  High  Street  had  been  repeatedly  lined 

is  with  bayonets  in  order  to  keep  down  the  disaffected 
gownsmen;  and  traitors  pursued  by  the  messen- 
gers of  the  government  had  been  concealed  in  the 
garrets  of  several  colleges.  Yet  the  admonition 
which,   even   under  such  circumstances,   Addison 

20  addressed  to  the  university,  is  singularly  gentle, 
respectful,  and  even  affectionate.  Indeed,  he 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  deal  harshly  even 
with  imaginary  persons.  His  fox-hunter,  though 
ignorant,  stupid,  and  violent,  is  at  heart  a  good 

25  fellow,  and  is  at  last  reclaimed  by  the  clemency  of 
the  king.  Steele  was  dissatisfied  with  his  friend's 
moderation,  and,  though  he  acknowledged  that  the 
Freeholder  was  excellently  written,  complained 
that  the  ministry  played  on  a  lute  when  it  was 

so  necessary  to  blow  the  trumpet.     He   accordingly 


220  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

determined  to  execute  a  flourish  after  his  own 
fashion,  and  tried  to  rouse  the  public  spirit  of  the 
nation  by  means  of  a  paper  called  the  Town  Talk, 
which  is  now  as  utterly  forgotten  as  his  English- 
man, as  his  Crisis,  as  his  Letter  to  the  Bailiff  of  b 
Stockbridge,  as  his  Reader,  in  short,  as  everything 
that  he  wrote  without  the  help  of  Addison. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  the  Drummer  was 
acted,  and  in  which  the  first  numbers  of  the  Free- 
holder appeared,  the  estrangement  of  Pope  and  io 
Addison  became  complete.  Addison  had  from  the 
first  seen  that  Pope  was  false  and  malevolent. 
Pope  had  discovered  that  Addison  was  jealous. 
The  discovery  was  made  in  a  strange  manner. 
Pope  had  written  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  in  two  is 
cantos,  without  supernatural  machinery.  These 
two  cantos  had  been  loudly  applauded,  and  by 
none  more  loudly  than  by  Addison.  Then  Pope 
thought  of  the  Sylphs  and  Gnomes,  Ariel,  Momen- 
tilla,  Crispissa,  and  Umbriel,  and  resolved  to  inter-  bo 
weave  the  Rosicrucian  mythology  with  the  original 
fabric.  He  asked  Addison's  advice.  Addison  said 
that  the  poem  as  it  stood  was  a  delicious  little 
thing,  and  entreated  Pope  not  to  run  the  risk  of 
marring  what  was  so  excellent  in  trying  to  mend  25 
it.  Pope  afterward  declared  that  this  insidious 
counsel  first  opened  his  eyes  to  the  baseness  of  him 
who  gave  it. 

Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Pope's  plan  was 
most  ingenious,  and  that  he  afterwards  executed  it   so 


LIFE    AND    WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       227 

with  great  skill  and  success.  But  does  it  neces- 
sarily follow  that  Addison's  advice  was  bad?  And 
if  Addison's  advice  was  bad,  does  it  necessarily 
follow  that  it  was  given  from  bad  motives?  If  a 
5  friend  were  to  ask  us  whether  we  would  advise  him 
to  risk  his  all  in  a  lottery  of  which  the  chances 
were  ten  to  one  against  him,  we  should  do  our 
best  to  dissuade  him  from  running  such  a  risk. 
Even  if  he  were  so  lucky  as  to  get  the  thirty  thou- 

10  sand  pound  prize,  we  should  not  admit  that  we  had 
counselled  him  ill;  and  we  should  certainly  think 
it  the  height  of  injustice  in  him  to  accuse  us  of 
having  been  actuated  by  malice.  We  think  Addi- 
son's advice  good  advice.     It  rested  on  a  sound 

is  principle,  the  result  of  long  and  wide  experience. 
The  general  rule  undoubtedly  is  that,  when  a  suc- 
cessful work  of  imagination  has  been  produced,  it 
should  not  be  recast.  We  cannot  at  this  moment 
call  to  mind  a  single  instance  in  which  this  rule 

20  has  been  transgressed  with  happy  effect,  except  the 
instance  of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.  Tasso  recast 
his  Jerusalem.  Akenside  recast  his  Pleasures  of 
the  Imagination,  and  his  Epistle  to  Curio.  Pope 
himself,  emboldened  no  doubt  by  the  success  with 

25  which  he  had  expanded  and  remodelled  the  Rape 
of  the  Lock,  made  the  same  experiment  on  the 
Dunciad.  All  these  attempts  failed.  Who  was  to 
foresee  that  Pope  would,  once  in  his  life,  be  able 
to  do  what  he  could  not  himself  do  twice,  and  what 

30  nobody  else  has  ever  done? 


228  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

Addison's  advice  was  good.     But  had  it   been  . 
bad,  why  should  we  pronounce  it  dishonest?     Scott 
tells  us  that  one  of  his  best  friends  predicted  the 
failure  of  Waverley.     Herder  adjured  Goethe  not 
to  take  so  unpromising  a  subject  as  Faust.     Hume    5 
tried  to  dissuade  Robertson  from  writing  the  His- 
tory of  Charles  the  Fifth.     Xay,  Pope  himself  was 
one   of   those   who   prophesied   that    Cato   would 
never  succeed  on  the  stage,  and  advised  Addison 
to  print  it  without  risking  a  representation.     But  10 
Scott,  Goethe,  Robertson,  Addison,  had  the  good 
sense  and  generosity  to  give  their  advisers  credit 
for  the  best  intentions.     Pope's  heart  was  not  of 
the  same  kind  with  theirs. 

In  1715,  while  he  was  engaged  in  translating  the  15 
Iliad,  he  met  Addison  at  a  coffee-house.     Philips 
and  Budgell  were  there;  but  their  sovereign  got 
rid  of  them,  and  asked  Pope  to   dine  with  him 
alone.     After  dinner,   Addison  said   that   he   lay 
under  a   difficulty  which   he   wished   to    explain.   20 
"Tickell,"  he  said,  "translated  some  time  ago  the 
first  book  of  the  Iliad.     I  have  promised  to  look  it 
over  and  correct  it.     I  cannot,  therefore,  ask  to 
see   yours,  for    that    would    be    double-dealing." 
Pope   made   a   civil   reply,    and   begged   that   his  25 
second  book  might  have  the  advantage  of  Addi- 
son's   revision.     Addison    readily  agreed,   looked 
over  the  second  book,  and  sent  it  back  with  warm 
commendations. 

Tick  ell's  version  of  the  first  book  appeared  soon   80 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      229 

after  this  conversation.  In  the  preface,  all  rivalry 
was  earnestly  disclaimed.  Tickell  declared  that  he 
should  not  go  on  with  the  Iliad.  That  enterprise 
he  should  leave  to  powers  which  he  admitted  to  be 

5  superior  to  his  own.  His  only  view,  he  said,  in 
publishing  this  specimen  was  to  bespeak  the  favor 
of  the  public  to  a  translation  of  the  Odyssey,  in 
which  he  had  made  some  progress. 

Addison,  and  Addison's  devoted  followers,  pro- 

10  nounced  both  the  versions  good,  but  maintained 
that  Tickell's  had  more  of  the  original.  The 
town  gave  a  decided  preference  to  Pope's.  We  do 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  settle  such  a  question 
of  precedence.     Neither  of  the  rivals  can  be  said 

is  to  have  translated  the  Iliad,  unless  indeed,  the 
word  translation  be  used  in  the  sense  which  it 
bears  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  When 
Bottom  makes  his  appearance  wTith  an  ass's  head 
instead  of  his  own,  Peter  Quince  exclaims,  "Bless 

20  thee!  Bottom,  bless  thee!  thou  art  translated." 
In  this  sense,  undoubtedly,  the  readers  of  either 
Pope  or  Tickell  may  very  properly  exclaim,  "Bless 
thee!  Homer;  thou  art  translated  indeed." 

Our  readers  will,   we    hope,    agree   with  us  in 

25  thinking  that  no  man  in  Addison's  situation  could 
have  acted  more  fairly  and  kindly,  both  towards 
Pope,  and  towards  Tickell,  than  he  appears  to 
have  done.  But  an  odious  suspicion  had  sprung 
up  in  the  mind  of  Pope.     He   fancied,   and  he 

30  soon  firmly  believed,  that  there  was  a  deep  con- 


230  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

spiracy  against  his  fame  and  his  fortunes.  The 
work  on  which  he  had  staked  his  reputation  was 
to  be  depreciated.  The  subscription,  on  which 
rested  his  hopes  of  a  competence,  was  to  be 
defeated.  With  this  view  Addison  had  made  a  5 
rival  translation :  Tickell  had  consented  to  father 
it;  and  the  wits  of  Button's  had  united  to  puff  it. 

Is  there  any  external  evidence  to  support  this 
grave  accusation?  The  answer  is  short.  There  is 
absolutely  none.  10 

Was  there  any  internal  evidence  which  proved 
Addison  to  be  the  author  of  this  version?  Was  it 
a  work  which  Tickell  was  incapable  of  producing? 
Surely  not.  Tickell  was  a  fellow  of  a  college  at 
Oxford,  and  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  able  to  15 
construe  the  Iliad ;  and  he  was  a  better  versifier 
than  his  friend.  We  are  not  aware  that  Pope  pre- 
tended to  have  discovered  any  turns  of  expression 
peculiar  to  Addison.  Had  such  turns  of  ex- 
pression been  discovered,  they  would  be  sufficiently  20 
accounted  for  by  supposing  Addison  to  have  cor- 
rected his  friend's  lines,  as  he  owned  that  he  had 
done. 

Is  there  anything  in  the  character  of  the  accused 
persons  which  makes  the  accusation  probable?  We  25 
answer  confidently — nothing.  Tickell  was  long 
after  this  time  described  by  Pope  himself  as  a  very 
fair  and  worthy  man.  Addison  had  been,  during 
many  years,  before  the  public.  Literary  rivals, 
political  opponents,  had  kept  their  eyes  on  him.   30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      231 

But  neither  envy  nor  faction,  in  their  utmost 
rage,  had  ever  imputed  to  him  a  single  deviation 
from  the  laws  of  honor  and  of  social  morality. 
Had  he  been  indeed  a  man  meanly  jealous  of 
s  fame,  and  capable  of  stooping  to  base  and 
wicked  arts  for  the  purpose  of  injuring  his  com- 
petitors, would  his  vices  have  remained  latent 
so  long?  He  was  a  writer  of  tragedy:  had  he 
ever  injured  Eowe?     He    was  a    writer    of  com- 

10  edy:,had  he  not  done  ample  justice  to  Congreve, 
and  given  valuable  help  to  Steele?  He  was  a 
pamphleteer :  have  not  his  good  nature  and  gener- 
osity been  acknowledged  by  Swift,  his  rival  in 
fame  and  his  adversary  in  politics? 

15  That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villany 
seems  to  us  highly  improbable.  That  Addison 
should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villany  seems  to  us 
highly  improbable.  But  that  these  two  men 
should  have  consjrired  together  to  commit  a  villany 

20  seems  to  us  improbable  in  a  tenfold  degree.  All 
that  is  known  to  us  of  their  intercourse  tends  to 
prove,  that  it  was  not  the  intercourse  of  two 
accomplices  in  crime.  These  are  some  of  the  lines 
in  which  Tickell  poured  forth  his  sorrow  over  the 

25  coffin  of  Addison: — 

"Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  tlry  gentle  mind  ? 
Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend, 
To  me  thine  aid,  thou  guardian  genius,  lend, 
30  "When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms, 


23  2  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 

In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 

And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 

Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 

Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more."  5 

In  what  words,  we  should  like  to  know,  did  this 
guardian  genius  invite  his  pupil  to  join  in  a  plan 
such  as  the  editor  of  the  Satirist  would  hardly- 
dare  to  propose  to  the  editor  of  the  Age? 

We  do  not  accuse  Pope  of  bringing  an  accusation  10 
which  he  knew  to  be  false.  We  have  not  the 
smallest  doubt  that  he  believed  it  to  be  true;  and 
the  evidence  on  which  he  believed  it  he  found 
in  his  own  bad  heart.  His  own  life  was  one  long 
series  of  tricks,  as  mean  and  as  malicious  as  that  of  15 
which  he  suspected  Addison  and  Tickell.  He  was 
all  stiletto  and  mask.  To  injure,  to  insult,  and  to 
save  himself  from  the  consequences  of  injury  and 
insult  by  lying  and  equivocating,  was  the  habit  of 
his  life.  He  published  a  lampoon  on  the  Duke  of  20 
Chandos;  he  was  taxed  with  it;  and  he  lied  and 
equivocated.  He  published  a  lampoon  on  Aaron 
Hill;  he  was  taxed  with  it;  and  he  lied  and 
equivocated.  He  published  a  still  fouler  lampoon 
on  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague;  he  was  taxed  25 
with  it ;  and  he  lied  with  more  than  usual  effront- 
ery and  vehemence.  He  puffed  himself  and 
abused  his  enemies  under  feigned  names.  He 
robbed  himself  of  his  own  letters,  and  then  raised 
the  hue  and  cry  after  them.     Besides  his  frauds  of  m 


LIFE    AND   WRITINGS   OF    ADDISON       ->33 

malignity,  of  fear,  of  interest,  and  of  vanity,  there 
were  frauds  which  he  seems  to  have  committed 
from  love  of  fraud  alone.  He  had  a  habit  of 
stratagem,  a  pleasure  in  outwitting  all  who  came 

5  near  him.  Whatever  his  object  might  be,  the 
indirect  road  to  it  was  that  which  he  preferred. 
For  Bolingbroke,  Pope  undoubtedly  felt  as  much 
love  and  veneration  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  feel 
for  any  human  being.     Yet  Pope  was  scarcely  dead 

10  when  it  was  discovered  that,  from  no  motive  except 
the  mere  love  of  artifice,  he  had  been  guilty  of  an 
act  of  gross  perfidy  to  Bolingbroke. 

Nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  such  a  man 
as  this  should  attribute  to  others  that  which  he 

15  felt  within  himself.  A  plain,  probable,  coherent 
explanation  is  frankly  given  to  him.  He  is  certain 
that  it  is  all  a  romance.  A  line  of  conduct 
scrupulously  fair,  and  even  friendly,  is  pursued 
towards  him.     He  is  convinced  that  it  is  merely  a 

20  cover  for  a  vile  intrigue  by  which  he  is  to  be  dis- 
graced and  ruined.  It  is  vain  to  ask  him  for 
proofs.  He  has  none,  and  wants  none,  except 
those  which  he  carries  in  his  own  bosom. 

Whether   Pope's  malignity  at  length  provoked 

25  Addison  to  retaliate  for  the  first  and  last  time, 
cannot  now  be  known  with  certainty.  We  have 
only  Pope's  story,  which  runs  thus.  A  pamphlet 
appeared  containing  some  reflections  which  stung 
Pope  to  the  quick.     What  those  reflections  were, 

30  and  whether  they  were  reflections  of  which  he  had 


234  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

a  right  to  complain,  we  have  now  no  means  of 
deciding.  The  Earl  of  Warwick,  a  foolish  and 
vicious  lad,  who  regarded  Addison  with  the  feel- 
ings with  which  such  lads  generally  regard  their 
best  friends,  told  Pope,  truly  or  falsely,  that  this  5 
pamphlet  had  been  written  by  Addison's  direction. 
When  we  consider  what  a  tendency  stories  have  to 
grow,  in  passing  even  from  one  honest  man  to 
another  honest  man,  and  when  we  consider  that  to 
the  name  of  honest  man  neither  Pope  nor  the  Earl  10 
of  Warwick  had  a  claim,  we  are  not  disposed  to 
attach  much  importance  to  this  anecdote. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  Pope  was  furious. 
He  had  already  sketched  the  character  of  Atticus 
in  prose.  In  his  anger  he  turned  this  prose  into  15 
the  brilliant  and  energetic  lines  which  everybody 
knows  by  heart,  or  ought  to  know  by  heart,  and 
sent  them  to  Addison.  One  charge  which  Pope 
has  enforced  with  great  skill  is  probably  not  with- 
out foundation.  Addison  was,  we  are  inclined  to  20 
believe,  too  fond  of  presiding  over  a  circle  of 
humble  friends.  Of  the  other  imputations  which 
these  famous  lines  are  intended  to  convey,  scarcely 
one  has  ever  been  proved  to  be  just,  and  some  are 
certainly  false.  That  Addison  was  not  in  the  25 
habit  of  "damning  with  faint  praise"  appears 
from  innumerable  passages  in  his  writings,  and 
from  none  more  than  from  those  in  which  he 
mentions  Pope.  And  it  is  not  merely  unjust,  but 
ridiculous,  to  describe  a  man  who  made  the  fortune  s~ 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS    OF    ADDISON       235 

of  almost  every  one  of  his  intimate  friends,  as  "so 
obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged." 

That   Addison  felt  the  sting  of   Pope's    satire 
keenly,,  we  cannot  doubt.     That  he  was  conscious 

5  of  one  of  the  weaknesses  with  which  he  was  re- 
proached is  highly  probable.  But  his  heart,  we 
firmly  believe,  acquitted  him  of  the  gravest  part  of 
the  accusation.  He  acted  like  himself.  As  a 
satirist  he  was,  at   his  own   weapons,  more  than 

10  Pope's  match,  and  he  would  have  been  at  no  loss 
for  topics.  A  distorted  and  diseased  body, 
tenanted  by  a  yet  more  distorted  and  diseased 
mind;  spite  and  envy  thinly  disguised  by  senti- 
ments as  benevolent  and  noble  as  those  which  Sir 

is  Peter  Teazle  admired  in  Mr.  Joseph  Surface;  a 
feeble,  sickly  licentiousness;  an  odious  love  of 
filthy  and  noisome  images ;  these  were  things 
which  a  genius  less  powerful  than  that  to  which 
we  owe  the  Spectator  could  easily  have  held  up  to 

20  the  mirth  and  hatred  of  mankind.  Addison  had, 
moreover,  at  his  command,  other  means  of  venge- 
ance which  a  bad  man  would  not  have  scrupled 
to  use.  He  was  powerful  in  the  state.  Pope  was 
a  Catholic;  and,  in  those  times,  a  minister  would 

25  have  found  it  easy  to  harass  the  most  innocent 
Catholic  by  innumerable  petty  vexations.  Pope, 
near  twenty  years  later,  said  that  "through  the 
lenity  of  the  government  alone  he  could  live  with 
comfort."     "Consider,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  injury 

so  that  a  man  of  high  rank  and  credit  may  do  to  a 


236  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

private  person,  under  penal  laws  and  many  other 
disadvantages."  It  is  pleasing  to  reflect  that  the 
only  revenge  which  Addison  took  was  to  insert  in 
the  Freeholder  a  warm  encomium  on  the  transla- 
tion of  the  Iliad,  and  to  exhort  all  lovers  of  learn-  5 
ing  to  put  down  their  names  as  subscribers. 
There  could  be  no  doubt,  he  said,  from  the  speci- 
mens already  published,  that  the  masterly  hand  of 
Pope  would  do  as  much  for  Homer  as  Dryden  had 
done  for  Virgil.  From  that  time  to  the  end  of  his  10 
life,  he  always  treated  Pope,  by  Pope's  own 
acknowledgment,  with  justice.  Friendship  was, 
of  course,  at  an  end. 

One  reason  which  induced  the  Earl  of  Warwick 
to  play  the  ignominious  part  of  talebearer  on  this  15 
occasion,  may  have  been  his  dislike  of  the  mar- 
riage which  was  about  to  take  place  between  his 
mother  and  Addison.  The  Countess  Dowager,  a 
daughter  of  the  old  and  honorable  family  of  the 
Middletons  of  Chirk,  a  family  which,  in  any  30 
country  but  ours,  would  be  called  noble,  resided  at 
Holland  House.  Addison  had,  during  some  years, 
occupied  at  Chelsea  a  small  dwelling,  once  the 
abode  of  Nell  Gwynn.  Chelsea  is  now  a  district  of 
London,  and  Holland  House  may  be  called  a  town  25 
residence.  But,  in  the  days  of  Anne  and  George 
the  First,  milkmaids  and  sportsmen  wandered 
between  green  hedges,  and  over  fields  bright  with 
daisies,  from  Kensington  almost  to  the  shore  of  the 
Thames.     Addison  and  Lady  Warwick  were  conn-  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      237 

try  neighbors,  and  became  intimate  friends.  The 
great  wit  and  scholar  tried  to  allure  the  young 
lord  from  the  fashionable  amusements  of  beating 
watchmen,  breaking  windows,  and  rolling  women 

5  in  hogsheads  down  Holborn  Hill,  to  the  study  of 
letters  and  the  practice  of  virtue.  These  well- 
meant  exertions  did  little  good,  however,  either  to 
the  disciple  or  to  the  master.  Lord  Warwick 
grew  up  a  rake;  and  Addison  fell  in  love.     The 

10  mature  beauty  of  the  countess  has  been  celebrated 
by  poets  in  language  which,  after  a  very  large 
allowance  has  been  made  for  flattery,  would  lead  us 
to  believe  that  she  was  a  fine  woman ;  and  her  rank 
doubtless  heightened  her  attractions.     The  court- 

15  ship  was  long.  The  hopes  of  the  lover  appear  to 
have  risen  and  fallen  with  the  fortunes  of  his 
party.  His  attachment  was  at  length  matter  of 
such  notoriety  that,  when  he  visited  Ireland  for  the 
last  time,  Kowe  addressed  some  consolatory  verses 

20  to  the  Chloe  of  Holland  House.  It  strikes  us  as  a 
little  strange  that,  in  these  verses,  Addison  should 
be  called  Lycidas,  a  name  of  singularly  evil  omen 
for  a  swain  just  about  to  cross  St.  George's 
Channel. 

25  At  length  Chloe  capitulated.  Addison  was 
indeed  able  to  treat  with  her  on  equal  terms.  He 
had  reason  to  expect  preferment  even  higher  than 
that  which  he  had  attained.  He  had  inherited 
the  fortune  of  a   brother  who  died  Governor  of 

30  Madras.     He  had  purchased  an  estate  in  Warwick- 


238  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

shire,  and  had  been  welcomed  to  his  domain  in 
very  tolerable  verse  by  one  of  the  neighboring 
squires,  the  poetical  fox-hunter,  William  Somer- 
ville.  In  August,  1716,  the  newspapers  announced 
that  Joseph  Addison,  Esquire,  famous  for  many  5 
excellent  works,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  had 
espoused  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick. 

He  now  fixed  his  abode  at  Holland  House,  a 
house  which  can  boast  of  a  greater  number  of 
inmates  distinguished  in  political  and  literary  his-  10 
tory  than  any  other  private  dwelling  in  England. 
His  portrait  still  hangs  there.  The  features  are 
pleasing;  the  complexion  is  remarkably  fair;  but 
in  the  expression  we  trace  rather  the  gentleness  of 
his  disposition  than  the  force  and  keenness  of  his  15 
intellect. 

Xot  long  after  his  marriage  he  reached  the 
height  of  civil  greatness.  The  Whig  Government 
had,  during  some  time,  been  torn  by  internal  dis- 
sensions. Lord  Townshend  led  one  section  of  the  20 
Cabinet,  Lord  Sunderland  the  other.  At  length, 
in  the  spring  of  1717,  Sunderland  triumphed. 
Townshend  retired  from  office,  and  was  accom- 
panied by  Walpole  and  Cowper.  Sunderland  pro- 
ceeded to  reconstruct  the  Ministry;  and  Addison  25 
was  appointed  Secretary  of  State.  It  is  certain  that 
the  Seals  were  pressed  upon  him,  and  were  at  first 
declined  by  him.  Men  equally  versed  in  official 
business  might  easily  have  been  found;  and  his 
colleagues  knew  that  they  could  not  expect  assist-  ao 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      239 

ance  from  him  in  debate.  He  owed  his  elevation 
to  his  popularity,  to  his  stainless  probity,  and  to 
his  literary  fame. 

But  scarcely  had  Addison  entered  the  Cabinet 

s  when  his  health  began  to  fail.  From  one  serious 
attack  he  recovered  in  the  autumn;  and*  his 
recovery  was  celebrated  in  Latin  verses,  worthy  of 
his  own  pen,  by  Vincent  Bourne,  who  was  then  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.     A  relapse  soon  took 

10  place;  and,  in  the  following  spring,  Addison  was 
prevented  by  a  severe  asthma  from  discharging  the 
duties  of  his  post.  He  resigned  it,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  friend  Craggs,  a  young  man  whose 
natural  parts,  though  little  improved  by  cultiva- 

15  tion,  were  quick  and  showy,  whose  graceful  person 
and  winning  manners  had  made  him  generally 
acceptable  in  society,  and  who,  if  he  had  lived, 
would  probably  have  been  the  most  formidable  of 
all  the  rivals  of  AValpole. 

20  As  yet  there  was  no  Joseph  Hume.  The  minis- 
ters, therefore,  were  able  to  bestow  on  Addison  a 
retiring  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
In  what  form  this  pension  was  given  we  are  not 
told  by   the  biographers,   and   have  not    time  to 

25  inquire.  But  it  is  certain  that  Addison  did  not 
vacate  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

Rest  of  mind  and  body  seemed  to  have  reestab- 
lished his  health;  and  he  thanked  God,  with 
cheerful  piety,  for  having  set  him  free  both  from 

30  his    office    and    from    his    asthma.     Many   years 


240  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

seemed  to  be  before  him,  and  he  meditated  many 
works,  a  tragedy  on  the  death  of  Socrates,  a  trans- 
lation of  the  Psalms,  a  treatise  on  the  evidences  of 
Christianity.  Of  this  last  performance,  a  part, 
which  we  conld  well  spare,  has  come  down  to  ns.     5 

But  the  fatal  complaint  soon  returned,  and 
gradually  prevailed  against  all  the  resources  of 
medicine.  It  is  melancholy  to  think  that  the  last 
months  of  such  a  life  should  have  been  overclouded 
both  by  domestic  and  by  political  vexations.  A  10 
tradition  which  began  early,  which  has  been  gener- 
ally received,  and  to  which  we  have  nothing  to 
oppose,  has  represented  his  wife  as  an  arrogant 
and  imperious  woman.  It  is  said  that,  till  his 
health  failed  him,  he  was  glad  to  escape  from  the  is 
Countess  Dowager  and  her  magnificent  dining- 
room,  blazing  with  the  gilded  devices  of  the  house 
of  Rich,  to  some  tavern  where  he  could  enjoy  a 
laugh,  a  talk  about  Virgil  and  Boileau,  and  a 
bottle  of  claret  with  the  friends  of  his  happier  20 
days.  All  those  friends,  however,  were  not  left  to 
him.  Sir  Richard  Steele  had  been  gradually 
estranged  by  various  causes.  He  considered  him- 
self as  one  who,  in  evil  times,  had  braved  martyr- 
dom for  his  political  principles,  and  demanded,  25 
when  the  Whig  party  was  triumphant,  a  large 
compensation  for  what  he  had  suffered  when  it  was 
militant.  The  Whig  leaders  took  a  very  different 
view  of  his  claims.  They  thought  that  he  had,  by 
his  own  petulance  and  folly,  brought  them  as  well  ao 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      241 

as  himself  into  trouble,  and  though  they  did  not 
absolutely  neglect  him,  doled  out  fa\rors  to  him 
with  a  sparing  hand.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should  be  angry  with  them,  and  especially  angry 

5  with  Addison.  But  what  above  all  seems  to  have 
disturbed  Sir  Richard,  was  the  elevation  of  Tickell, 
who.  at  thirty,  was  made  by  Addison  Undersecre- 
tary of  State ;  while  the  editor  of  the  Tatler  and 
Spectator,  the  author  of  the  Crisis,  the   member 

10  for  Stockbridge  who  had  been  persecuted  for  firm 
adherence  to  the  house  of  Hanover,  was,  at  near 
fifty,  forced,  after  many  solicitations  and  com- 
plaints, to  content  himself  with  a  share  in  the  pat- 
ent of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.     Steele  himself  says,  in 

is  his  celebrated  letter  to  Congreve,  that  Addison,  by 
his  preference  of  Tickell,  "incurred  the  warmest 
rasentment  of  other  gentlemen;"  and  everything 
seems  to  indicate  that,  of  those  resentful  gentle- 
men, Steele  was  himself  one. 

ao  While  poor  Sir  Richard  was  brooding  over  what 
he  considered  as  Addison's  unkindness,  a  new 
cause  of  quarrel  arose.  The  Whig  party,  already 
divided  against  itself,  was  rent  by  a  new  schism. 
The  celebrated  bill  for  limiting  the  number  of  peers 

25  had  been  brought  in.  The  proud  Duke  of  Somer- 
set, first  in  rank  of  all  the  nobles  whose  origin 
permitted  them  to  sit  in  Parliament,  was  the 
ostensible  author  of  the  measure.  But  it  was  sup- 
ported, and,  in  truth,  devised  by  the  Prime 
Minister. 


242  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

We  are  satisfied  that  the  bill  was  most  perni- 
cious ;  and  we  fear  that  the  motives  which  induced 
Sunderland  to  frame  it  were  not  honorable  to 
him.  But  we  cannot  deny  that  it  was  supported  by 
many  of  the  best  and  wisest  men  of  that  age.  5 
Nor  was  this  strange.  The  royal  prerogative 
had,  within  the  memory  of  the  generation  then 
in  the  vigor  of  life,  been  so  grossly  abused, 
that  it  was  still  regarded  with  a  jealousy  which, 
when  the  peculiar  situation  of  the  House  of  10 
Brunswick  is  considered,  may  perhaps  be  called 
immoderate.  The  particular  prerogative  of  creat- 
ing peers  had,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Whigs,  been 
grossly  abused  by  Queen  Anne's  last  Ministry ;  and 
even  the  Tories  admitted  that  her  majesty  in  15 
swamping,  as  it  has  since  been  called,  the  Upper 
House,  had  done  what  only  an  extreme  case  could 
justify.  The  theory  of  the  English  constitution, 
according  to  many  high  authorities,  was  that  three 
independent  powers,  the  sovereign,  the  nobility,  20 
and  the  commons,  ought  constantly  to  act  as  checks 
on  each  other.  If  this  theory  were  sound,  it 
seemed  to  follow  that  to  put  one  of  these  powers 
under  the  absolute  control  of  the  other  two  was 
absurd.  But  if  the  number  of  peers  were  un-  25 
limited,  it  could  not  well  be  denied  that  the  Upper 
House  was  under  the  absolute  control  of  the  Crown 
and  the  Commons,  and  was  indebted  only  to  their 
moderation  for  any  power  which  it  might  be 
suffered  to  retain.  90 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON       243 

Steele  took  part  with  the  Opposition,  AddisoD 
with  the  ministers.  Steele,  in  a  paper  called  the 
Plebeian,  vehemently  attacked  the  bill.  Sunder- 
land  called   for   help   on   Addison,   and    Addison 

5  obeyed  the  call.  In  a  paper  called  the  Old  WJiig, 
he  answered,  and  indeed  refuted  Steele's  argu- 
ments. It  seems  to  us  that  the  premises  of  both 
the  controversialists  were  unsound,  that,  on  those 
premises,  Addison  reasoned  well  and  Steele  ill,  and 

10  that  consequently  Addison  brought  out  a  false 
conclusion,  while  Steele  blundered  upon  the  truth. 
In  style,  in  wit,  and  in  politeness,  Addison  main- 
tained his  superiority,  though  the  Old  Whig  is  by 
no  means  one  of  his  happiest  performances. 

15  At  first,  both  the  anonymous  opponents  observed 
the  laws  of  propriety.  But  at  length  Steele  so  far 
forgot  himself  as  to  throw  an  odious  imputation  on 
the  morals  of  the  chiefs  of  the  administration. 
Addison  replied  with  severity,  but,  in  our  opinion, 

so  with  less  severity  than  was  due  to  so  grave  an 
offence  against  morality  and  decorum ;  nor  did  he, 
in  his  just  anger,  forget  for  a  moment  the  laws  of 
good  taste  and  good  breeding.  One  calumny  which 
has  been  often  repeated,  and  never  yet  contradicted, 

25  it  is  our  duty  to   expose.     It   is  asserted   in   the 

Biographic.  Britannica,    that  Addison  designated 

Steele   as    "little    Dicky."     This    assertion    was 

repeated  by  Johnson,  who  had  never  seen  the  Old 

Whig,  and  was  therefore  excusable.     It  has  also 

30  been  repeated  by  Miss  Aikin,  who  has  seen  the  Old 


244  MACAULAYS   ESSAYS 

Whig,  and  for  whom  therefore  there  is  less  excuse. 
Now,  it  is  true  that  the  words  "little  Dicky"  occur 
in   the    Old    Whig,  and   that    Steele's   name   was 
Richard.     It  is  equally  true  that  the  words  "little 
Isaac"  occur  in  the  Duenna,  and  that  Newton's    5 
name  was  Isaac.     But  we  confidently  affirm  that 
Addison's  little  Dicky  had  no  more  to  do  with 
Steele,  than  Sheridan's  little  Isaac  with  Newton 
If  we  apply  the  words  "little  Dicky"  to  Steele,  we 
deprive  a  very  lively  and  ingenious   passage,  not   10 
only  of  all  its  wit,  but  of  all  its  meaning.     Little 
Dicky  was  the    nickname   of    Henry  N  orris,   an 
actor  of  remarkably  small  stature,   but  of    great 
humor,  who  played  the  usurer  Gomez,  then  a  most 
popular  part,  in  Dry  den's  Spanish  Friar.  15 

The  merited  reproof  which  Steele  had  received, 
though  softened  by  some  kind  and  courteous 
expressions,  galled  him  bitterly.  He  replied  with 
little  force  and  great  acrimony ;  but  no  rejoinder 
appeared.  Addison  was  fast  hastening  to  his  20 
grave;  and  had,  we  may  well  suppose,  little  dis- 
position to  prosecute  a  quarrel  with  an  old  friend. 
His  complaint  had  terminated  in  dropsy.  He 
bore  up  long  and  manfully.  But  at  length  he 
abandoned  all  hope,  dismissed  his  physicians,  and  25 
calmly  prepared  himself  to  die. 

His  works  he  intrusted  to  the  care  of  Tickell, 
and  dedicated  them  a  very  few  days  before  his 
death  to  Craggs,  in  a  letter  written  witli  the  sweet 
iind  graceful  eloquence  of  a  Saturday's   Spectator,   so 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      245 

In  this,  his  last  composition,  he  alluded  to  his 
approaching  end  in  words  so  manly,  so  cheerful, 
and  so  tender,  that  it  is  difficult  to  read  them 
without   tears.     At  the  same    time  he    earnestly 

5  recommended  the  interests  of  Tickell  to  the  care 
of  Craggs. 

Within  a  few  hours  of  the  time  at  which  this 
dedication  was  written,  Addison  sent  to  beg  Gay, 
who  was  then  living  by  his  wits  about  town,  to 

10  come  to  Holland  House.  Gay  went,  and  was 
received  with  great  kindness.  To  his  amazement 
his  forgiveness  was  implored  by  the  dying  man. 
Poor  Gay,  the  most  good-natured  and  simple  of 
mankind,  could  not  imagine  what  he  had  to  for- 

15  give.  There  was,  however,  some  wrong,  the 
remembrance  of  which  weighed  on  Addison's 
mind,  and  which  he  declared  himself  anxious  to 
repair.  He  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  exhaustion ; 
and  the  parting  was  doubtless  a  friendly  one  on 

20  both  sides.  Gay  supposed  that  some  plan  to 
serve  him  had  been  in  agitation  at  Court,  and  had 
been  frustrated  by  Addison's  influence.  Nor  is 
this  improbable.  Gay  had  paid  assiduous  court 
to  the  royal  family.     But  in  the  Queen's  days  he 

25  had  been  the  eulogist  of  Bolingbroke,  and  was  still 
connected  with  many  Tories.  It  is  not  strange 
that  Addison,  while  heated  by  conflict,  should 
have  thought  himself  justified  in  obstructing  the 
preferment  of    one  whom  he  might  regard  as  a 

30  political  enemy.     Neither  is  it  strange  that,  when 


246  MACAULAY'S   ESSAYS 

reviewing  his  whole  life,  and  earnestly  scrutinizing 
all  his  motives,  he  should  think  that  he  had  acted 
an  unkind  and  ungenerous  part,  in  using  his 
power  against  a  distressed  man  of  letters,  who  was 
as  harmless  and  as  helpless  as  a  child.  5 

One  inference  may  be  drawn  from  this  anecdote. 
It  appears  that  Addison,  on  his  death-bed,  called 
himself  to  a  strict  account,  and  was  not  at  ease  till 
he  had  asked  pardon  for  an  injury  which  it  was 
not  even  suspected  that  he  had  committed,  for  an  10 
injury  which  would  have  caused  disquiet  only  to  a 
very  tender  conscience.  Is  it  not  then  reasonable 
to  infer  that,  if  he  had  really  been  guilty  of  form- 
ing a  base  conspiracy  against  the  fame  and  fortunes 
of  a  rival,  he  would  have  expressed  some  remorse  15 
for  so  serious  a  crime?  But  it  is  unnecessary  to 
multiply  arguments  and  evidence  for  the  defence, 
when  there  is  neither  argument  nor  evidence  for 
the  accusation. 

The  last  moments  of  Addison  were  perfectly  20 
serene.  His  interview  with  his  son-in-law  is  uni- 
versally known.  "See,"  he  said,  "how  a  Chris- 
tian can  die."  The  piety  of  Addison  was,  in 
truth,  of  a  singularly  cheerful  character.  The 
feeling  which  predominates  in  all  his  devotional  25 
writings  is  gratitude.  God  was  to  him  the  allwise 
and  allpowerful  friend  who  had  watched  over  his 
cradle  with  more  than  maternal  tenderness;  who 
had  listened  to  his  cries  before  they  could  form 
themselves  in  prayer ;  who  had  preserved  his  youth  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      247 

from  the  snares  of  vice ;  who  had  made  his  cup 
run  over  with  worldly  blessings ;  who  had  doubled 
the  value  of  those  blessings  by  bestowing  a  thank- 
ful heart    to    enjoy    them,    and   dear    friends  to 

5  partake  them;  who  had  rebuked  the  waves  of 
the  Ligurian  gulf,  had  purified  the  autumnal  air 
of  the  Campagna,  and  had  restrained  the  ava- 
lanches of  Mont  Cenis.  Of  the  Psalms,  his 
favorite  was  that  which  represents  the  Ruler  of  all 

10  things  under  the  endearing  image  of  a  shepherd, 
whose  crook  guides  the  flock  safe,  through  gloomy 
and  desolate  glens,  to  meadows  well  watered  and 
rich  with  herbage.  On  that  goodness  to  which  he 
ascribed  all  the  happiness  of  his  life,  he  relied  in 

is  the  hour  of  death  with  the  love  that  casteth  out 
fear.  He  died  on  the  seventeenth  of  June,  1719. 
He  had  just  entered  on  his  forty-eighth  year. 

His  body  lay  in  state  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber, 
and  was   borne  thence  to  the  Abbey  at  dead  of 

20  night.  The  choir  sang  a  funeral  hymn.  Bishop 
Atterbury,  one  of  those  Tories  who  had  loved  and 
honored  the  most  accomplished  of  the  Whigs,  met 
the  corpse,  and  led  the  procession  by  torchlight, 
round  the  shrine  of  Saint  Edward  and  the  graves 

25  of  the  Plantagenets,  to  the  Chapel  of  Henry  the 
Seventh.  On  the  north  side  of  that  chapel,  in  the 
vault  of  the  house  of  Albemarle,  the  coffin  of 
Addison  lies  next  to  the  coffin  of  Montague.  Yet 
a  few  months,  and  the  same  mourners  passed  again 

30  along  the  same  aisle.     The  same  sad  anthem  was 


248  MACAULAY'S  ESSAYS 

again  chanted.  The  same  vanlt  was  again  opened ; 
and  the  coffin  of  Craggs  was  placed  close  to  the 
coffin  of  Addison. 

Many  tributes  were  paid  to  the  memory  of  Addi- 
son ;  but  one  alone  is  now  remembered.     Tickell    5 
bewailed  his  friend  in  an  elegy  which   would  do 
honor  to  the  greatest  name  in  our  literature,  and 
which  unites  the  energy  and  magnificence  of  Dry- 
den  to  the  tenderness  and  purity  of  Cowper.     This 
fine  poem  was  prefixed  to  a  superb  edition  of  Addi-  10 
son's  works,   which  was    published   in    1721,   by 
subscription.      The     names    of     the     subscribers 
proved  how   widely  his    fame  had    been    spread. 
That  his  countrymen  should  be  eager  to  possess  his 
writings,  even  in  a  costly  form,  is  not  wonderful,   is 
But  it  is  wonderful  that,  though  English  literature 
was  then  little  studied  on  the  continent,  Spanish 
grandees,   Italian    prelates,   marshals    of    France, 
should  be   found  in  the  list.      Among  the  most 
remarkable   names   are    those    of    the    Queen   of  ao 
Sweden,  of  Prince  Eugene,  of  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Tuscany,  of  the  Dukes   of  Parma,   Modena,  and 
Guastalla,  of  the  Doge  of  Genoa,  of  the  Regent 
Orleans,  and  of  Cardinal  Dubois.     We  ought  to 
add  that  this  edition,  though  eminently  beautiful,   25 
is  in  some  important  points  defective ;  nor,  indeed, 
do  we  yet  possess  a  complete  collection  of  Addi- 
son's writings. 

It  is  strange  that  neither  his  opulent  and  noble 
widow,   nor   any  of    his    powerful    and    attached  30 


LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF   ADDISON      '249 

friends,  should  have  thought  of  placing  even  a 
simple  tablet,  inscribed  with  his  name,  on  the  walls 
of  the  Abbey.  It  was  not  till  three  generations 
had  laughed  and  wept  over  his  pages,  that  the 
5  omission  was  supplied  by  the  public  veneration. 
At  length,  in  our  own  time,  his  image,  skilfully 
graven,  appeared  in  Poet's  Corner.  It  represents 
him,  as  we  can  conceive  him,  clad  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  freed  from  his  wig,  stepping  from  his 

10  parlor  at  Chelsea  into  his  trim  little  garden,  with 
the  account  of  the  Everlasting  Club,  or  the  Loves 
of  Hilpa  and  Shalum,  just  finished  for  the  next 
day's  Spectator,  in  his  hand.  Such  a  mark  of 
national  respect  was  due  to  the  unsullied  states - 

15  man,  to  the  accomplished  scholar,  to  the  master 
of  pure  English  eloquence,  to  the  consummate 
painter  of  life  and  manners.  It  was  due,  above  all, 
to  the  great  satirist,  who  alone  knew  how  to  use 
ridicule  without  abusing  it,  who,  without  inflicting 

20  a  wound,  effected  a  great  social  reform,  and  who 
reconciled  wit  and  virtue,  after  a  long  and  disas- 
trous separation,  during  which  wit  had  been  led 
astray  by  profligacy,  and  virtue  by  fanaticism. 


NOTES 

Although  these  notes  are  critical,  they  include  few  questions  in  regard 
to  Macaulay's  structure  and  style.  It  is  deemed  that  the  Introduction 
affords  a  sufficient  starting-point  for  studies  in  that  direction.  Expla- 
nations of  names,  etc.,  must  be  sought  in  the  Glossary. 

MILTON 

This  is  the  first  of  a  long  series  of  essays  which  Macau- 
lay  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  It  appeared  in 
August,  1S25,  immediately  establishing  his  fame.  In  the 
preface  to  his  collected  essays  he  said  of  it  that  it  "con- 
tained scarcely  a  paragraph  such  as  his  matured  judgment 
approved,''  and  that  even  after  revision  it  remained  "  over- 
loaded with  gaudy  and  ungraceful  ornament."  The  revi- 
sion did  not  involve  any  remodeling,  but  only  the  removal 
of  some  blemishes  caused  by  haste.  A  few  of  these  changes 
will  be  noted  below.  In  spite  of  Macaulay's  depreciation, 
sincere  and  warranted,  the  essay  remains  a  wonderful 
achievement  for  a  man  of  twenty-four  years.  The  critical 
tone  is  youthful,  but  in  grasp  of  history  and  in  authorita- 
tive judgment  on  historical  matters  there  is  no  sign  of 
juvenility. 

There  are  biographies  of  Milton  in  the  English  Men  of 
Letters  series  (by  Mark  Pattison),  in  Great  Writers  (by 
Richard  Garnett),  in  Classical  Writers  (by  Stopford  A. 
Brooke),  and  there  is  the  great  six-volume  Life  by  Masson. 
Of  Milton's  works,  Masson's  editions,  large  and  small,  are 
the  best.     The  Globe  edition  is  the  most  convenient. 

Page  45:  Title.  Joannis,  etc.  All  the  articles  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  were,  and  still  are,  unsigned  reviews  of  books, 
printed  speeches,  etc,  and  have  prefixed  to  them  the  name 
of  the  book  reviewed.  The  magazine,  though  now  nearly 
one  hundred  years  old,  has  not  changed  its  form  in  any 
respect ;  the  very  title-page  remains  word  for  word  as  in 

251 


252  NOTES 

the  first  number,  except  that  it  now  bears  the  imprint  of 
London  instead  of  Edinburgh.  The  so-called  reviews,  how- 
ever,are  often  much  more  than  reviews.  Macaulay  in  partic- 
ular would  not  confine  himself  within  such  narrow  limits, 
but  made  the  publication  of  a  book  a  pretext  for  writing 
a  finished  essay  on  the  theme  suggested  by  it.  Note  in  this 
essay  the  point  at  which  he  leaves  the  book  he  is  review- 
ing1 and  launches  into  his  general  theme.  When  the  entire 
essay  has  been  read  and  outlined,  it  will  be  interesting  to 
discuss  the  question  how  far  Mr.  J.  Cotter  Morison  is  jus- 
tified in  classifying  it  with  the  historical  rather  than  with 
the  critical  essays.     See  Introduction,  6. 

45 :  9.  Mr.  Skinner,  Merchant.  Macaulay  errs  in  follow- 
ing the  conjectures  of  Mr.  Lemon  and  others.  Cyriack 
Skinner,  to  whom  Milton  indited  two  sonnets,  was  proba- 
bly not  a  merchant.  The  Latin  Treatise  was  copied  out  by 
one  Daniel  Skinner,  an  amanuensis  of  Milton's,  was  sent  to 
Elzevir,  the  Amsterdam  printer,  but,  not  being  published 
for  political  reasons,  was  probably  returned  to  Daniel  Skin- 
ner's father,  who  was  a  merchant.  See  Masson's  Life  of 
Milton,  vol.  vi.,  p.  791,  or  Ency.  Brit.  xvi.  328. 

46:  20.  The  book  itself.  Could  we  not  almost  determine 
the  date  of  Macaulay's  essay  from  the  internal  evidence  of 
this  paragraph? 

46:  28.  Polish  and  brighten  .  .  gloss  and  brilliancy.  One 
example  of  "overloading  with  gaudy  ornament."  Find 
others. 

47:  3.  Quintilian  stare.  See  Milton's  Sonnet  XI.  There 
are  other  quotations  from  Milton's  sonnets  in  this  essay. 

47:  8.  We  may  apply.  The  sentence  was  originally 
written :  "What  Denham  with  great  felicity  says  of  Cowley, 
may  be  applied  to  him."  Why  did  Macaulay,  in  revising, 
invert  it? 

47:  9.     The  garb. 

Horace's  wit  and  Virgil's  state 

He  did  not  steal,  but  emulate, 

And  when  he  would  like  them  appear, 

Their  garb,  but  not  their  clothes,  did  wear. 

— From  Denham's  Elegy  on  Cowley. 


NOTES  253 

47:  19.  Some  of  the.  Was  it  well  to  make  a  new  para- 
graph here  I 

47:  29.  Observation.  Some  editors  have  changed  this  to 
observance,  but  Macaulay  wrote  observation,  and  it  must  stand. 
It  is  certainly  a  matter  for  surprise  that  he  was  either 
ignorant  of,  or  cai'eless  about,  the  distinction  between 
these  forms  that  has  held  pretty  well  ever  since  Shaks- 
pere's  time.  See  Century  Did.,  "observance,"  syn.  The 
very  translation  which  he  was  reviewing  has  always,  in 
this  connection,  either  celebration  or  observance. 

40:  1U.  His  detractors.  It  is  not  Macaulay's  way  to 
speak  thus  in  genex*al  terms  without  having  something 
very  specific  in  mind.  And  the  specific  instances  are 
usually  given.  A  little  search  will  show  that  one  is- given 
here.  With  this  clue  it  may  be  woi'th  while  to  try  to  find 
just  where  it  has  been  intimated  that  Milton  only  "in- 
herited what  his  predecessors  created." 

40:  28.  Paradoxical  .  .  appear.  Show  that  the  phrase 
is  pleonastic. 

50 :  2.  An  age  too  late.  Paradise  Lost,  ix.  44.  The  same 
doubt  had  been  expressed  in  a  tract,  "  Reason  of  Church 
Government,"  written  more  than  twenty  years  before  Par- 
adise Lost. 

50:  12.  As  civilization  advances.  In  mature  life,  Macau- 
lay  was  inclined  to  discountenance  such  philosophical 
speculation  as  totally  worthless.  Is  the  theory  here  ad- 
vanced in  regard  to  poetry  tenable?  Is  there  not  a  fallacy 
in  the  premise  that  "  the  earliest  poets  are  generally  the 
best  "?  Assuming  that  there  were  lesser  poets  before  the 
best,  what  is  likely  to  have  become  of  their  work?  Read 
Johnson's  Hansel  as,  chapter  x.,  and  see  how  much  of  this  is 
original  with  Macaulay,  how  much  is  opposed  to  Johnson, 
and  how  much  is  in  agreement  with  him. 

52:  24.  Niobe  .  .  Aurora.  Here  again  Macaulay  has 
in  mind  specific  passages  in  English  poetry.  Can  you  find 
them? 

54:  6.  Children.  "He  had  a  favorite  theory,  on  which 
he  often  insisted,  that  children  were  the  only  true  poets, 
and  this  because  of  the  vividness  of  their  impressions,  .  . 
as  if  the  force  of  the  impression  were  everything,  and  its 


254  NOTES 

character  nothing-.  By  this  rule,  wax-work  should  be  finer 
art  than  the  best  sculpture  in  stone." — J.  Cotter  Morison. 

56:  13.  Great  talent*.  A  sly  thrust  at  Wordsworth. 
Consider  the  respective  ages  of  the  two  men  and  draw 
your  conclusion  as  to  one  trait  of  Macaulay's  character. 

56:  19.     Nopoet.     Introduction,  13. 

58:  1.  About  him.  Macaulay  boasted  that  if  all  the 
copies  of  Paradise  Lost  were  destroyed,  he  could  reproduce 
most  of  the  poem  from  memory.  A  comparison  of  the 
lines  here  quoted  with  the  original  (iv.  551)  will  show  what 
accuracy  might  have  been  expected  in  the  reproduction. 
The  lines,  as  Macaulay  first  printed  them,  were  even  more 
inaccurate. 

58:  27.  Put  their  sickles.  Eeaders  familiar  with  the 
Bible  will  note  in  these  essays  a  surprisingly  large  number 
of  Biblical  echoes. 

59:  30.  Burial-places  of  the  memory.  One  of  the  most 
striking  and  beautiful  figures  in  these  essays.  A  late 
writer  on  style,  Mr.  Walter  Raleigh,  has  made  it  more 
vivid  perhaps,  but  not  more  beautiful,  when  he  writes: 
"The  mind  of  man  is  peopled  like  some  silent  city,  with 
a  sleeping  company  of  reminiscences,  associations,  impres- 
sions, attitudes,  emotions,  to  be  awakened  into  fierce 
activity  at  the  touch  of  words." 

60:  9.  The  miserable  failure.  Does  this  last  sentence  add 
to  the  beauty  of  the  paragraph?  To  the  force  of  the  argu- 
ment? Which  is  the  more  probable  —  that  the  instance 
grew  out  of  the  argument,  or  the  argument  out  of  the  in. 
stance?  Dryden,  by  the  way,  is  said  to  have  had  Milton's 
"somewhat  contemptuous  consent"  to  try  to  "tag  his 
verses." 

62:  2.  Mr.  Newbery.  A  good  example  of  Macaulay's 
love  of  specific  details.  Most  writers  would  have  omitted 
the  name  of  the  inventor.  It  is  also  one  of  the  "journal- 
istic" ear-marks.  Mr.  Newbery  may  have  been  well 
known  to  the  British  public  in  1825, — it  might  not  be  easy, 
even  if  it  were  worth  while,  to  find  out  anjrthing  about  him 
now.  The  curious  reader  will  find  several  Newberys  in 
the  Diet,  of  Nat.  Biog.,  and  one  of  them  wrote  story-books 
for  children,  but  he  died  in  1767,  and  the  curious  reader  is 


NOTES  255 

not  certainly  wiser.  In  like  manner,  in  Macaulay's  essay 
on  Robert  Montgomery,  there  are  allusions  to  "  Romanis's 
fleecy  hosiery,  Pack  wood's  razor  straps,  and  Rowlands 
Kalydor." 

64 :  3.  Sad  Electro's  poet.  Later  in  life,  Macaulay 
changed  his  mind  about  Euripides,  liking-  him  then  better 
than  Sophocles. 

65:  18.  Hags  of  a  chimney-sweeper.  This  figure  had  been 
used  by  Macaulay  in  his  essay  on  Petrarch,  published  the 
year  before,  in  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine.  Comparing  Pe- 
trarch's worst  poems  with  his  best,  he  says:  "  They  differ 
from  them  as  a  Ma}r-day  procession  of  chimney-sweepers 
differs  from  the  Field  of  Cloth  of  Gold.  They  have  the 
gaudiness  but  not  the  wealth."  It  is  interesting  to  note 
that  there  is  an  allusion  to  the  Field  of  Cloth  of  Gold  also  in 
the  present  essay. 

66:  10.  Dorique  delicacy.  The  Doric  dialect  was  consid- 
ered less  pure  and  elegant  than  the  Attic,  and  "  Doric  dia- 
lect "  is  to-day  almost  equivalent  to  "slang."  However, 
Mr.  Stedman,  thinking  of  Theocritus,  calls  the  Tenny- 
sonian  idyllic  effects  Dorian  (  Victorian  Poets,  p.  227) .  And 
the  Doric  order  of  architecture  combined  "great  solidity 
with  extreme  delicacy  and  artistic  taste." 

69:  11.  Ball  of  St.  Peter's.  Inferno,  xxxi.  51.  Literally, 
the  pine-cone  of  St.  Peter's.  "This  pine-cone,  of  bronze, 
was  set  originally  upon  the  summit  of  the  Mausoleum  of 
Hadrian.  .  .  .  It  was,  in  the  sixth  century,  taken  down 
and  carried  off  to  adorn  a  fountain  ...  in  front  of  the 
old  basilica  of  Saint  Peter." — C.  E.  Norton:  Travel  and  Study 
in  Italy.  The  cone  is  now  in  the  gardens  of  the  Vatican.  It 
is  eleven  feet  high — which  would  make  the  giant 
seventy. 

69:  18.  Mr.  Cary's  translation.  We  have  many  transla- 
tions now,  notably  Longfellow's,  but  Mr.  Cary's  (1805-14; 
has  held  its  own  remarkably  well. 

77:  10.  Fee-faw-fum.  For  example,  Tasso's  Jerusalem, 
Delivered,  iv.  4-8 ;  Klopstock's  Messias,  ii. 

79:  10.  Modern  beggars  for  fame.  This  time  the  thrust 
is  at  Byron.  Compare  the  allusion  to  the  "sneer  of 
Harold,"  on  p.  62. 


250  NOTES 

80:  16.  A  statesman  and  a  lover.  Milton  was,  we  admit, 
a  statesman,  and  Dante  was  a  lover,  but  we  are  reluctant 
to  admit  much  more. 

80:  28.  Style  of  a  hellman.  A  somewhat  vulgar  com- 
parison. Macaulay  seems  to  have  liked  it — compare  the 
Introduction,  7. 

81:  12.  Neither  blindness.  For  the  style,  see  Romans  viii. 
38,  39.  It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  form  in  which  this 
sentiment  reappears  in  the  History  of  England,  written  fif- 
teen or  more  years  later:  "A  mightier  poet,  tried  at  once 
by  pain,  danger,  poverty,  obloquy,  and  blindness,  medi- 
tated, undisturbed  by  the  obscene  tumult  which  raged  all 
around  him,  a  song  so  sublime  and  so  holy  that  it  would 
not  have  misbecome  the  lips  of  those  ethereal  Virtues 
whom  he  saw,  with  that  inner  eye  which  no  calamity 
could  darken,  flinging  down  on  the  jasper  pavement  their 
crowns  of  quotation  in  amai*anth  and  gold."     (Chap,  iii.) 

82:  9.  Juice  of  summer  fruits.  Macaulay  rarely  fails  to 
give  a  curiously  utilitarian  twist  to  his  finest  descriptions 
of  nature.  Note,  too,  several  sentences  below,  how  his 
love  of  antithesis  pursues  him  even  into  his  appreciation 
of  scenery.  In  the  next  essay,  as  he  follows  Addison  on 
his  travels,  among  the  things  of  note  are  "verdure  under 
the  winter  solstice,"  "the  smallest  independent  state  in 
Europe,"  bad  roads,  rich  plains,  a  healthy  peasantry, 
simple  manners  and  institutions.  Clearly  the  modern 
natiu-e  worship  had  taken  no  strong  hold  upon  him.  Con- 
sider his  life-interests  and  environment.  See  Introduc- 
tion, 16,  18;  and  compare  Emerson's  statement:  "The 
brilliant  Macaulay,  who  expresses  the  tone  of  the  English 
governing  classes  of  the  day,  explicitly  teaches  that  good 
means  good  to  eat,  good  to  wear,  material  commodity." 

84:  13.  Unwonted  fear.  The  original  reads  "strange 
and  unwonted  fear."     Why  was  "  strange  "  expunged? 

84:  23.  Lion.  La  Fontaine's  Fables,  iii.  10;  iEsop,  63 
(219). 

87:  2.  The  present  year.  In  1825  the  Catholic  Associa- 
tion agitated  for  emancipation,  and  Canning  succeeded  in 
passing  through  the  House  a  bill  for  the  relief  of  the  Cath- 
olics.    For  Macaulav's  attitude  in  the  matter,  if  it  cannot 


NOTES  25? 

be  gathered  from  the  pages  that  follow  here,  see  Tre- 
.  i.  141.  What  double  purpose  does  this  digres- 
sion upon  the  Revolution  of  1688  serve?  And  what  has  it 
all  to  do  with  Milton? 

87:  IT.  Theirlabor.  It  should  be  an  easy  matter  to  guess 
the  source  of  this  quotation.  That  done,  it  is  scarcely 
worth  while  to  look  it  up  further. 

88:  4.  To  palliate.  The  subtle  sarcasm  of  this  must 
not  be  overlooked.  The  entire  paragraph  may  require 
and  close  study  before  it  yields  its  full  meaning.  The 
most  important  thing,  of  conrse,  is  its  general  drift  and  its 
bearing  on  the  larger  theme  of  the  principles  behind  the 
English  Revolution.  This  should  be  fairly  clear  at  one 
reading.  But  this  will  be  much  reinforced  by  a  knowledge 
of  the  historical  details  used  as  illustrations.  Macaulay 
passes  so  rapidly,  in  his  analogies  and  illustrations,  from 
one  thing  to  another,  from  the  Rebellion  to  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  from  Ireland  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  to  the 
Catholic  countries  after  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  in 
the  present  century,  that  one  must  have  some  grasp  of 
general  history  to  follow  him.  Take  note  that  after  the 
downfall  of  Napoleon,  the  Bourbon  kings  were  reestab- 
lishing themselves.  With  the  terrible  lesson  of  the  French 
Revolution  behind  them,  they  changed  their  phrase  of 
"divine  right"  into  something  milder,  as  "legitimacy."' 
Promising,  and  even  granting,  popular  constitutions,  they 
repeatedlv  broke  their  pledges.  Ferdinand  IV.  of  Naples 
(Ferdinand  I.  of  the  Two  Sicilies)  did  thus  ;  Ferdinand  VII. 
of  Spain  did  thus;  and  out  of  the  despotism  of  the  latter 
grew  the  revolt  of  the  South  American  possessions.  Now. 
these  peoples  were  suffering  for  revolting  against  Catholic 
kings  ;  the  Irish,  two  centuries  ago,  had  suffered  for  adher- 
ing to  a  Catholic  king,  and  their  descendants  are  suffering 
still.  Yet,  in  the  eyes  of  a  certain  class  of  people,  it  is  all 
one.  Macaulay  is  really  arraigning  all  who  would  justify 
abuses,  whether  the  abuses  take  the  form  of  imperial  des- 
potism or  religious  persecution.  If  the  arraignment  is  a 
little  hot-headed,  we  remember  that  Macaulay  was  young, 
and  that  he  was  writing  for  a  Whig  journal. 

88:  21.     Ferdinand,  the  Catholic.     It  is  pretty   clear  that 


258  NOTES 

Maeaulay  means,  not  Ferdinand  V.,  who  is  commonly  sur- 
named  "  The  Catholic,''  but  Ferdinand  VII.  "  Fi-ederic 
the  Protestant  "  seems  to  be  dragged  in  chiefly  to  fill  out 
the  antithesis,  though  Frederick  William  III.  of  Prussia 
was  also  intolerant  of  liberal  ideas  and  neglected  to  set  up 
the  constitutional  system  of  government  which  he  had 
promised. 

9-4:  24.  Hume  .  .  address.  This  is  precisely  the 
charge  sometimes  brought  against  Maeaulay. 

95:  16.  Unmerited  fate  of  Strafford.  A  discussion  of 
this  and  of  other  events  in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  mav 
be  found  in  Macaulay's  essay  on  Hallam's  Constitutiotial 
History. 

95 :  25.  Shouting  for  King  Jesus.  There  is  no  intentional 
irreverence  here,  but  there  is  certainly  a  breach  of  good 
taste.  The  offence  lies  not  so  much  in  what  is  said  as  in 
the  way  in  which  it  is  said. 

102:  28.  ^Eneos  magnidextra.  ^Eneas,  compelled  to  slay 
the  brave  youth,  Lausus  (Vergil,  uEn.  x.  830),  tries  to  con- 
sole the  dying  youth,  saying:  "  This  at  least,  ill-starred  as 
you  are,  shall  solace  the  sadness  of  your  death :  it  is  great 
iEneas's  hand  that  brings  you  low."  The  aptness  of  the 
comparison  is  evident,  and  affords  a  good  illustration  of 
Macaulay's  analogic  faculty  (Introduction,  8). 

106:  19.  Then  came  those  days.  Whatever  we  may  think 
of  this  passage  as  history,  which  should  be  above  all  dis- 
passionate, we  cannot  withhold  our  admiration  for  it  as 
literature.  Rhetoric  it  may  be,  but  it  is  rhetoric  touched 
and  sublimed  by  an  almost  Hebraic  fervor.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  fourth  paragraph  following  has  in  it  a  decided 
ring  of  insincerity,  so  that  what  is  meant  to  be  eloquence 
is  only  cheap  grandiloquence. 

108:  7.  Calves'  heads  .  .  oak-branches.  The  Calves' 
Head  Club  was  instituted  in  ridicule  of  Charles  I.  At  its 
dinners  a  dish  of  calves'  heads  represented  the  king  and 
his  friends.  Oak-branches  were  worn  by  Royalists  on  the 
birthday  of  Charles  II.  in  memory  of  the  time  when,  .after 
the  battle  of  Worcester,  he  concealed  himself  in  an  oak 
at  Boseobel.  See  Clarendon's  History  of  the  Rebellion, 
siii,  84. 


NOTES     .  259 


109:  12.     Ecco  il 

"  See  here  the  streani%f  laughter,  see  the  spring/ 
Quoth  they,  "of  danger  and  of  deadly  pain, 
Here  fond  desire  must  byvfair  governing 
Be  rxiled,  our  lust  bridled  with  wisdom's  rein." 
— Tasso:  Jerusalem  Delivered,  xv.  57  (Fairfax's  translation.) 

116:  24.  He  was  not  a  Puritan.  Compare  Masson's  Life, 
vi.  840. 

120:  9.     Called  upon  Cromwell.     Sonnet  xvi. 

121:  19.  Kitorin  advermm.  Apollo's  speech,  telling  how 
he  must  drive  the  chariot  of  the  sun  against  the  eastward 
movement  of  the  universe:  "Against  this  I  must  contend; 
nor  does  the  force  which  overcomes  all  else  overcome  me, 
but  I  am  borne  in  an  opposite  direction  to  the  wheeling 
world."    Ovid,  Metam.  ii.  72. 

123:  26.  Bosioellism.  In  the  first  essay  on  William  Pitt; 
this  becomes  "Lues  Boswelliana,  or  disease  of  admiration." 
In  the  essay  on  Hastings,  it  appears  as  "Furor  BiograpJdcus." 

124:  6.  Of  these  was  Milton.  If  Milton  suffered  severely 
at  the  hands  of  Dr.  Johnson  in  the  eighteenth  century,  he 
has  had  no  lack  of  valiant  champions  in  the  nineteenth. 
Conspicuous  among  them,  besides  Macaulay,  were  Thomas 
de  Quincey  and  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

THE   LIFE   AND  WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON 

Of  the  thirty-six  essays  contributed  by  Macaulay  to  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  this  was  the  thirty-fourth.  It  appeared  in 
July,  1843,  and  represents  him  at  the  maturity  of  his  powers. 
It  cannot  quite  rank,  however,  with  such  essays  as  those  on 
Clive  and  Hastings,  because  the  author  is  not  so  much  at 
home  in  criticism  as  in  history.  Let  the  reader,  in  compar- 
ing it  with  the  essay  on  Milton,  note  all  the  evidences  he 
can  find  of  the  growth  of  Macaulay's  mind  and  art.  It  will 
be  profitable  to  read  in  connection  with  it  the  essays  upou 
Addison  by  Johnson  (Liven  of  the  Poets)  and  Thackeray 
(English  Humorists)  Mr.  Courthope's  Life  of  Addison,  in 
the  English  Men  of  Letters  series,  should  be  read,  if  possi- 
ble, if  only  to  correct  some  of  the  mistakes  or  exaggerations 


260  NOTES 

of  Macaulay's  essay.  Perhaps,  too,  in  order  to  avoid  car- 
rying away  from  the  prolonged  study  of  one  man  a  false 
estimate  of  his  importance,  it  will  be  well  to  keep  in  mind 
the  words  written  by  a  late  critic,  Mr.  Gosse,  in  his  History 
"/  Eighteenth  Century  Literature:  "  With  some  modification, 
what  has  been  said  of  Addison  may  be  repeated  of  Steele, 
whose  fame  has  been  steadily  growing  while  the  exagger- 
ated reputation  of  Addison  has  been  declining."  "The 
time  has  probably  gone  by  when  either  Addison  or  Steele 
could  be  placed  at  the  summit  of  the  literary  life  of  their 
time.  Swift  and  Pope,  each  in  his  own  wray,  distinctly  sur- 
passed them." 

127  :  24.  Ahject  idolatry.  This  is  still  another  reference 
to  what  Macaulay  elsewhere  calls  Boswellism,  or  disease  of 
admiration.  How  near  he  comes  to  falling  himself  a  victim 
to  it  in  the  present  essay,  the  reader  must  not  fail  to  judge. 

133 :  29.  His  knowledge  of  Greek.  Note  just  what  is  said, 
and  do  not  get  the  idea  that  Addison  knew  no  Greek. 
Macaulay  has  a  way  of  making  his  sentences  seem  to  say 
more  than  is  in  their  words. 

136:  10.  Evidences  of  Christianity.  The  essay  is  entitled 
"Of  the  Christian  Religion."  Gibbon  had  long  before 
brought  the  same  charge  of  superficialitj7  against  the  essay. 

136:  21.  Moved  the  senate  to  admit.  This  is  either  one 
of  Macaulay's  exaggerations,  or  else  "moved  the  senate" 
must  be  understood  in  a  strictly  parliamentary  sense. 
What  Addison  wrote  ("Of  the  Christian  Religion,"  i.  7)  is 
this:  "  Tertullian  .  .  .  tells  .  .  .  that  the  Emperor 
Tiberius,  having  received  an  account  out  of  Palestine  in 
Syria  of  the  Divine  Person  who  had  appeared  in  that  coun- 
try, paid  him  a  particular  regard,  and  threatened  to  punish 
•anyhow  should  accuse  the  Christians;  nay.  that  the  em- 
peror would  have  adopted  him  among  the  deities  whom  they 
worshipped,  had  not  the  senate  refused  to  come  into  his 
proposal." 

137:  12.  Confounded  an  aphorism.  This  is  very  boldly 
borrowed,  without  acknowledgment,  from  the  account  of 
Blackmore  in  Johnson's  Lives.  Macaulay  is  not  always  fair 
to  Johnson.  As  to  the  second  charge  against  Blackmore.  if 
Macaulay  found  four  false  quantities  on  one  page  (he  seems 


NOTES  201 

to  refer  to  the  pronunciation  of  Latin  proper  names  in  an  Eng- 
lish poem,  and  not  to  Latin  verses)  he  would  probably  con- 
sider that  to  be  a  sufficient  basis  for  making  the  statement. 

l'.iH:  28.  Exmrgit.  Again  Macaulay  seems  to  be  quoting 
from  memory,  for  Addison  wrote  astturgtt,  following  Vergil, 
Qeorgit  g  3,  355.  The  translation  of  the  lines  is :  "  Now  into 
mid-ranks  strides  the  lofty  leader  of  the  Pygmies,  of  awful 
majesty  and  venerable  port,  overtopping  all  the  rest  with 
his  gigantic  bulk,  and  towering  to  half  an  ell. " 

142:  18.  After  his  bees.  The  figure  was  suggested  by  the 
subject-matter  of  a  portion  of  the  fourth  Georgic — the  hiv- 
ing and  care  of  bees.  It  is  made  more  appropriate  too  by 
the  familiar  legend,  told  of  many  poets  and  particularly  of 
Pindar,  that  bees  swarmed  upon  their  lips  in  infancy,  por- 
tending  the  sweetness  of  their  future  songs. 

119:  12.     The  accomplished  men.     See  BoswelVs  Johnson. 

119:23.  Johnson  will  have  it.  In  his  life  of  Addison.  It 
is  interesting  to  see  how  Macaulay  delights  in  setting  his 
opinion  against  the  great  Doctor  s.  In  his  biographical 
essay  upon  him,  however,  he  is  generous  enough,  though,  as 
Mr.  Morison  says,  his  "appreciation  is  inadequate." 

loO:  16.  No  poem  .  .  in  dead  language.  Macaulay, 
in  his  various  essays,  repeats  freely  his  ideas  and  illustra- 
tions. Turn  to  his  essay  on  Frederic  the  Great,  and  in  the 
passage  beginning  at  about  the  eleventh  paragraph,  will  be 
found  this  same  discussion,  together  with  the  account  of 
Frederic  the  Great's  accomplishments  in  French,  and  an 
allusion  to  "  Newdigate  and  Seatonian  poetry."  It  is  a 
good  example  of  the  working  of  the  psychologic  law  of  asso- 
ciation. And  any  one  familiar  with  the  essays  can  turn  to 
a  dozen  such  examples. 

151:  22.  Ne  croyez.  "Do  not  think,  however,  that  I 
mean  by  this  to  condemn  the  Latin  verses  of  one  of  your 
illustrious  scholars  which  you  have  sent  me.  I  find  them 
excellent,  worthy  indeed  of  Vida  or  Sannazaro,  though  not 
of  Horace  and  Vergil." 

152:  10.  Quid  numeris.  "Why,  O  Muse,  dost  thou  bid 
me,  a  Frank,  born  far  this  side  of  the  Alps,  again  to  stam- 
mer in  Latin  verse  ?  " 

153:   7.    .4ji  event.    This  union  of  France  and  Spain  left 


262  NOTES 

the  other  countries  of  Europe  at  a  great  disadvantage,  and 
led  to  the  Grand  Alliance  against  France  and  Spain,  and 
the  long  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession  (1701-1714). 

154:  29.  More  wonder  than  pleasure.  Not,  perhaps,  until 
Ruskin's  Stones  of  Venice  (1851-53)  was  Gothic  architecture 
fully  appreciated  by  the  English. 

155:  17.  Soliloquy.  For  the  famous  soliloquy  in  Ad- 
dison's Tragedy  of  Cato,  see  Act  V.,  Sc.  I. 

158:   8.     Tory  fox-hunter.     Addison's  Freeholder,  No.  22. 

158:  15.  Tomb  of  Misenua.  Mneid  VI.,  233.— Circe.  Mn. 
VII.,  10. 

162:  7.  He  became  tutor.  Probably  incorrect.  See  Glos- 
sary, Somerset. 

164:  13.  The  position  of  Mr.  Canning.  That  is,  the  posi- 
tion of  a  moderate  Tory,  favoring  the  measures  and  reforms 
advocated  by  the  Whigs. 

167 :  12.  Famous  similitude.  Containing  the  famous  line, 
"Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm." 

169:  2.  Life-guardsman.  Members  of  the  Life  Guards 
must  be  six  feet  tall.  As  to  Shaw,  of.  note  on  Mr.  Nbw- 
bert,  62:  2. 

173:19.  Spectre  Huntsman.  Macaulay  may  be  thinking 
of  Byron's  verse,  "  The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line." 
(Don  Juan,  iii.,  106).  "  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood,"  says 
Byron,  "Boccaccio's  lore  and  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted 
ground  to  me."  Addison  should  have  known  the  story  from 
Boccaccio's  tale.  Dryden's  versification  of  it,  Theodore  and 
Honoria,  was  only  published  in  1700,  while  Addison  was 
abroad,  and  it  is  not  likely  he  had  read  it  before  visiting 
Ravenna,  though  he  might  well  havo  read  it  before  writing 
up  his  travels.  However,  Macaulay  fails  to  consider  that 
not  all  memories  respond  to  suggestions  so  readily  as  his 
own.  Atone  place  in  his  journal,  for  instance,  he  tells  how 
he  visited  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  bedroom,  and — "  I  thought 
of  all  St.  Simon's  anecdotes  about  that  room  and  bed." 

173:  25.    Greatest  lyric  poet.    This  is  extravagant  praise. 

177:  4.  The  Censorship  of  the  Press.  This  practically 
ceased  in  1679,  when  the  statute  for  the  regulation  of 
printing,  which  was  passed  just  after  the  Restoration, 
expired. 


NOTES  263 

178:12.  In  Grub  street.  Does  this  mean  that  Walpole 
and  Pulteney  lived  in  Grub  street? 

179:  27.  Popularity  .  .  timidity.  One  of  Macaulay's 
paradoxes. 

181:  4.  He  had  one  hahit.  "He  [Macaulay]  too  fre- 
quently resorts  to  vulgar  gaudiness.  For  example,  there  is 
in  one  place  a  certain  description  of  an  alleged  practice  of 
Addison's.  Swift  had  said  of  Esther  Johnson  that  'whether 
from  easiness  in  general,  or  from  her  indifference  to  persons, 
or  from  her  despair  of  mending  them,  or  from  the  same 
practice  which  she  most  liked  in  Mr.  Addison,  I  cannot 
determine;  but  when  she  saw  any  of  the  company  very 
warm  in  a  wrong  opinion,  she  was  more  inclined  to  confirm 
them  in  it  than  to  oppose  them.  It  prevented  noise,  she 
said,  and  saved  time.'  Let  us  behold  what  a  picture  Macau- 
lay  draws  on  the  strength  of  this  passage.  'If  his  first 
attempts  to  set  a  presuming  dunce  right  were  ill-received,' 
Macaulay  says  of  Addison,  '  he  changed  his  tone,  "  assented 
with  civil  leer,'*  and  lured  the  flattered  coxcomb  deeper  and 
deeper  into  absurdity.'  To  compare  this  transformation  of 
the  simplicity  of  the  original  into  the  grotesque  heat  and 
overcharged  violence  of  the  copy,  is  to  see  the  homely 
maiden  of  a  country  village  transformed  into  the  painted 
flaunter  of  the  city."— John  Morlet.  Macaulay's  quota- 
tion, "  assented  with  civil  leer,"  is  from  Pope's  well-known 
line: 

"  Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer." 

181:  12.  Criticisms  .  .  dialogue.  Ta tier,  163;  Spectator, 
568. 

18-4:  12.  Steele.  "The  character  of  Steele,  with  his 
chivalry  and  his  derelictions,  his  high  ideal  and  his  broken 
resolves,  has  been  a  favorite  one  with  recent  biographers. 
who  prefer  his  rough  address  to  the  excessive  and  meticu- 
lous civility  of  Addison.  It  is  permissible  to  love  them 
both,  and  to  see  in  each  the  complement  of  the  other.  It  is 
proved  that  writers  like  Macaulay  and  even  Thackeray  have 
overcharged  the  picture  of  Steele's  delinquencies,  and  have 
exaggerated  the  amount  of  Addison's  patronage  of  his 
friend.  But  nothing  can  explain  away  Steele's  careless 
in  money  matters  or  his  inconsistency  in  questions  of  moral 


264  NOTES 

detail.  He  was  very  quick,  warm-hearted  and  impulsive, 
while  Addison  had  the  advantage  of  a  cold  and  phlegmatic 
constitution.  Against  the  many  eulogists  of  the  younger 
man  we  may  place  Leigh  Hunt's  sentence :  '  I  prefer  open- 
hearted  Steele  with  all  his  fault9  to  Addison  with  all  his 
essays.'  "— Gosse:  History  of  Eighteenth  Centura  Literature 
(1889).  See  also  Aitken's  Life  of  Steele,  II.,  345  and  else  where. 

185:14.  Provoked  Addison.  Landor"s  "Imaginary  Con- 
versation between  Steele  and  Addison "  will  be  interesting 
reading  in  this  connection. 

186:  10.     The  real  history.     See  Introduction,  12. 

191:  23.  By  mere  accident.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  critics 
are  pretty  well  agreed  that  Steele  led  the  way  everywhere, 
though  in  certain  respects  Addison  often  outshone  him. 
In  the  words  of  Mr.  Aitken,  Steele's  biographer,  "the 
world  owes  Addison  to  Steele." 

192:  3.  Half  German  jargon.  Carlyle  had  for  some 
years,  like  Coleridge  before  him,  been  acting  as  a  medium 
between  German  philosophy  and  literature  and  English. 
Of  course  Macaulay  is  ridiculing  Carlyle' s  uncouth  style. 
Landor,  another  stickler  for  pure  English,  said  upon  the 
appearance  of  Carlyle's  Frederick  that  he  was  convinced  he 
(Landor)  wrote  two  dead  languages — Latin  and  English. 

196:  18.  Revenge  .  .  wreaked.  Who  Bettesworth 
and  De  Pompignan  were  is  not  important.  Can  it  be  deter- 
mined from  the  text  who  "wreaked  revenge"  upon  them? 

200:  1.  White  staff.  Official  badge  of  the  Lord  High 
Treasurer. 

200:  15.  We  calmly  review.  Calmly,  perhaps,  but  not 
impartially.  Macaulay's  Whig  prejudices  are  vei*y  apparent. 

201:  25.  Lost  his  fortune.  It  is  very  probable,  however, 
that  Addison  was  still  what  might  be  called  "  independently 
rich." 

207:  19.  The  following  papers.  Nos.  26,  329,  69,  317, 159, 
343,  517. 

208:  16.  The  stamp  tax.  A  Tory  measure  of  1712  virtu- 
ally aimed  at  tbe  freedom  of  the  press. 

210:  4.  Easy  solution.  Macaulay's  essays  are  full  of 
these  easy  solutions.  They  are  usually  mere  guesses,  but  it 
must  be  admitted  that  they  are  usually  sensible  ones. 


NOTES 

211:  11.  From  the  city.  That  is,  from  the  mercantile 
portion  of  the  city— the  original  city  of  London. 

213:  30.  The  French  model.  This  refers  to  dramas  of 
the  so-called  Classical  school,  which  adhered  closely  to 
certain  conventional  rules— the  three  "unities,"  for  in- 
stance, of  time,  place  and  action.  The  Shaksperean  drama 
is  constructed  with  far  greater  freedom. 

215:  1.  But  among.  Why  is  this  long  paragraph  allowed 
to  stand  as  a  unit,  when  it  could  easily  be  subdivided  ?  And 
why  are  some  short  paragraphs  (the  ninth  preceding,  for 
example)  allowed  to  stand,  when  they  could  easily  be  com- 
bined with  the  others  I 

215:    28.     Malice.     Toward  whom  ? 

221 :  27.  The  Swift  of  1708.  1708  was  the  date  of  one  of 
Swift's  best  poems,  Baucis  and  Philemon,  and  of  the  attack 
upon  astrology  in  the  pamphlet  against  Partridge,  the  alma- 
nac-maker, which  Macaulay  has  already  mentioned.  In  1738, 
the  year  of  his  last  published  writing  (long  after  the  death 
pf  Addison,  be  it  noted),  he  was  an  old  man  on  the  verge  of 
insanity. 

222:  27.  Iliad.  VI.,  226.  Diomedes  speaks  to  Glaucus : 
"  So  let  us  shun  each  other's  spears,  even  among  the  throng; 
Trojans  are  there  in  multitudes  and  famous  allies  for  me  to 
slay,  whoe'er  it  be  that  God  vouchsafeth  me,  and  my  feet 
overtake;  and  for  thee  are  there  Achaians  in  multitude,  to 
slay  whome'er  thou  canst." — Leaf:s  translation. 

232:  17.  All  stiletto  and  mask .  For  Macaulay's  portrait 
of  Pope,  as  of  Steele,  many  allowances  must  be  made. 

233:  26.  Cannot  .  .  certainty.  See  Courthope's 
Addison,  chapter  vii. 

234:  16.  Energetic  lines.  The  "  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuth- 
not  "   (Prologue  to  the  Satires),  lines  193-214. 

236:  22.  Holland  House.  Macaulay  has  celebrated  this 
mansion  of  social  fame  in  one  of  his  most  ambitious  periods 
—  the  concluding  paragraph  of  the  essay  on  Lord  Holland,  a 
strange  compound  of  artificiality  of  form  and  undeniable 
sincerity  of  feeling. 

237:  19.  Consolatory  verses.  Not,  of  course,  because  he 
was  to  visit  Ireland  for  the  last  time,  but  because  he  had  to 
visit  Ireland  at  all. 


266  NOTES 

244 :  11.  Little  Dicky  was  the  nickname.  In  the  article  as 
originally  printed  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  this  sentence 
stands :  "  Little  Dicky  was  evidently  the  nickname  of  some 
comic  actor  who  played  the  usurer  Gomez,"  etc.  Macaulay, 
having  discovered  later  that  his  guess  was  entirely  right, 
inserted  the  name  of  the  actor  into  the  revised  essay.  But 
it  may  be  noticed  that,  in  the  face  of  this  positive  informa- 
tion, his  preceding  argument  and  "  confident  affirmation," 
which  he  allowed  to  remain  as  written,  now  fall  a  little  flat. 

247:  10.  Shepherd,  whose  crook.  It  is  a  little  hard  to 
forgive  Macaulay  for  yielding  so  often  to  the  temptation  to 
paraphrase  the  most  beautiful  and  most  exalted  passages  in 
literature.  The  echoes  from  Comus  in  his  essay  on  Milton 
will  be  remembered.  And  in  his  essay  on  Boswell's  Life  of 
Johnson  he  has  ventured  thus  to  lay  hands  on  one  of  the 
sublimest  utterances  in  Dante— Cacciaguida's  prophecy  of 
Dante's  banishment: 

"  Thou  shall  nave  proof  how  savoreth  of  salt 
The  bread  of  others,  and  how  hard  a  road 
The  going  down  and  up  another's  stairs." 

To  have  such  pure  poetry  as  this,  which  remains  poetry 
still  in  Longfellow's  perfect  translation,  turned  into  mere 
rhetoric,  into  "that bread  which  is  the  bitterest  of  all  food, 
those  stairs  which  are  the  most  toilsome  of  all  paths,"  jars 
cruelly  upon  the  sensibilities  of  all  to  whom  the  original  has 
become  familiar  and  sacred. 

248 :  24.  We  ought  to  add.  Here  the  journalist  and  re- 
viewer most  inopportunely  intrudes  upon  the  eulogist.  As 
to  the  eulogy  itself,  the  catalogue  of  dignitaries  in  the  pre- 
ceding sentence  has  no  such  impressiveness  for  the  demo- 
cratic reader  as  it  may  have  had  for  English  readers  of  fifty 
years  ago.  In  fact  it  is  a  little  ridiculous,  and  throws  a 
curious  light  either  on  Macaulay's  estimate  of  his  readers, 
or,  what  is  equally  probable,  upon  the  limitations  of  his  own 
nature.  To  see  that  nature  at  its  best  we  must  turn  back 
to  the  revelation  of  a  worthier  feeling  in  the  touching 
description  of  Addison's  dedication  of  his  works  to  his  friend 
Craggs. 


GLOSSARY 


For  the  principle  followed  In  compiling  this  Glossary,  and  on  the  use  of 
reference  books  generally,  see  Preface. 


Act.  At  Oxford,  the  occasion  of  the 
conferring  of  degrees,  at  which 
formerly  miracle  and  mystery 
plays  were  enacted.  After  1669 
the  Act  was  performed  in  the 
Sheldonian  Theater,  and  London 
companies  frequently  went  down 
to  give  performances.    213:15. 

Act  of  Settlement.  The  agree- 
ment by  which  the  Hanoverians 
and  not  the  Stuarts  (whom  Louis 
XIV.  favored)  were  to  succeed 
Queen  Anne.    165:6. 

Ag'barus  or  Ab'garus.  Ruler  of 
Edessa  in  Mesopotamia.  Euse- 
bius  supposed  him  to  have  been 
the  author  of  a  letter  written  to 
Christ,  found  in  the  church  at 
Edessa.  The  letter  is  believed  by 
Gibbon  and  others  to  be  spurious. 
136:2-2. 

Am'adis  of  Gaul.  The  hero  of  a 
famous  mediaeval  romance.  Also 
thenameof  the  romance.    70:30. 

Aminta.  An  Italian  pastoral  drama 
by  Tasso,  1573.    65:4. 

Anathema  >L>.rana'tha.  Com- 
monly interpreted  as  an  intense 
form  of  anathema,  i.e.,  a  thing  ac- 
cursed. Seel.  Cor., xvi., 22.    107:3. 

Arima'nestor  Ahr'iman).  SeeOito 
MA8DE8.     84:1. 

Ar'tegal,  Sir.  The  impersonation  of 
Justice  in  the  fifth  book  of  Spen- 
ser's Fairy  Queen.    113:19. 

Athalie'.  A  tragedy  by  the  French 
dramatist  Racine.    214:1. 


Balisarda.  In  Ariosto\s  Orlando 
Fuiioso,  the  enchanted  sword  of 
Orlando  (cp.  Arthur's  Excalibur), 
which  finally  falls  into  the  hands 
of  Rogero.  In  Rogero's  fight  with 
Bradaniante,  it  is  exchanged  for 
another  sword  (xlv.,  68).  125: 
18. 

Bena'cus.  The  largest  lake  of 
Northern  Italy  and  noted  for 
storms.  It  is  now  called  Garda. 
Vergil  (Georgics  2,  160)  tells  of 
"  Benacus,  swelling  with  billows 
and  boisterous  turmoil,  like  a 
sea."    154:30. 

Bentley,  Richard.  A  noted  English 
classical  scholar.  His  "  Disserta- 
tion on  the  Epistltsof  Phalaris" 
(1697, 1699),  which  Porson,  another 
noted  scholar,  called  ''the  immor- 
tal dissertation,"  was  written  to 
prove  the  spuriousness  of  those 
epistles.    137:22. 

Biographia  Britannica.  Published 
1747-66.  Long  a  standard  work; 
superseded  of  course  now,  espe- 
cially by  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography.    129:7. 

Blenheim.  In  Bavaria.  The  scene 
of  the  great  defeat  of  the  French 
(1704)  by  the  allies  under  Marl- 
borough and  Prince  Eugene.  164: 
29. 

Book  of  Gold.  The  name  given  to 
the  list  of  Genoese  nobles  and  citi- 
zens of  property  which  w;t.s  made 
at   the   time  Andrea  Doria  deliv- 


S567 


268 


GLOSSARY 


ered  Genoa  from  French  domina- 
tion (1528).    154:22. 

Boyle,  Charles.  He  attempted, 
with  the  help  of  others,  to  defend 
the  genuineness  of  the  "  Epistles 
of  Phalaris"  against  the  famous 
scholar  Bentley.  Swift's  Battle 
of  the  Books  is  founded  on  the 
incident.  See  Macaulay's  sketch  of 
Attertaury  in  the  Ency.  Brit. 
137:5. 

Bradaman'te.  In  Ariosto's  Orlando 
Fvtrioso,  a  woman  of  great  prow- 
ess, finally  overcome  by  Bogero, 
whom  she  marries.    125 :16. 

Brunei,  Sir  Marc  Isambard.  A  civil 
engineer  who  in  1806  completed 
machinery  for  making  ships' 
blocks.    140:26. 

Button's.  A  London  coffee-house, 
probably  established  by  an  old 
servant  of  Addison's.    128:15. 

Captain  General.  See  Marlbor- 
ough.   175:21. 

Catharine  of  Braganza.  The  In- 
fanta of  Portugal.  Married  Charles 
II.  of  England  in  1662.    129:23. 

Cat'inat,  Nicholas.  Commander  of 
the  French  army  in  Northern 
Italy  in  the  War  of  the  Spanish 
Succession.    159:30. 

Charter  House  (a  corruption  of 
Chartreuse).  Originally  a  Carthu- 
sian monastery  in  London;  later 
an  endowed  hospital  and  school 
for  boys.  Pictured  by  Thackeray, 
in  The  Newcomes,  under  the  name 
of  Grey  Friars.    130 :20. 

Child's.  A  coffee-house,  frequented 
by  churchmen.    204:17. 

Cinna.  A  tragedy  by  the  French 
dramatist  Corneille.    214:2. 

Clarendon, Earl  of  (Edward Hyde). 
The  chief  adviser  of  Charles  I.  dur- 
ing the  Civil  War.  The  great  his- 
tory of  the  Rebellion  which  he  left 
was  not  published  till  1704.    85:11, 


Cock  Lane  Ghost.  See  Boswell's 
Johnson,  June25,1763.    136:18. 

Collier,  Jeremy.  An  English  clergy- 
man. He  attacked  the  contem- 
porary theater  in  his  Immorality 
and  Profaneness  of  the  English 
Stage,  1693.    197  :3. 

Conduct  of  the  Allies.  A  famous 
Tory  pamphlet  written  by  Swift; 
1711.    177:13. 

Congreve,  126:29;  Wycherlcy, 
197:5;  Etherege,  197:4;  Van- 
brugh,  197:15.  For  the  Restora- 
tion drama  and  dramatists,  see 
Macaulay's  essay  on  Leigh  Hunt's 
edition  of  the  dramatists;  also 
his  History,  Chapters  II.  and  III. 

Corporation.  In  English  politics, 
a  body  of  men  governing  a  town 
and  selecting  its  member  of  Par- 
liament.   202:4. 

Defensio  Popull.  Properly  Pio 
Populo  Anglicano  Defensio.  Mil- 
ton's most  famous  Latin  work, 
1651.    See  Salmasius.    48:7. 

demy',  or  demi.  At  Magdalen 
College,  Oxford,  a  student  upon 
a  scholarship,  who  will  succeed  to 
the  next  vacant  fellowship.  132:19. 

Dominic,  Saint.  The  founder  of  the 
Dominican  order  of  monks.  A 
religious  zealot,  and  friend  of  De 
Montfort  the  elder  in  the  crusade 
against  the  Albigenses,  1208. 
114:5. 

Don  Ju'an.  In  the  Spanish  and 
Italian  plays  on  this  theme,  Don 
Juan  jeeringly  invites  the  statue 
or  the  ghost  of  the  man  he  had 
killed  to  supper.  It  comes  and 
drags  him  to  hell.    76:19. 

Duenna,  The.  One  of  Sheridan's 
comedies.    244:5. 

Dunstan,  Saint.  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  in  the  tenth  century. 
Often  described  as  a  mystic.  One 
legend  relates  that  he  once  seiztd 


GLOSSARY 


869 


the  devil  by  the  nose  with  a  pair 
of  red-hot  tongs.    114.  5. 

Elizabethan  age  In  literature, 
the  term  commonly  includes  the 
reigns  of  both  Elizabeth  and  James 
I.    127:4. 

Erasmus.  A  famous  Dutch  theolog- 
ical scho'ar.  His  works,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  time  (1500),  were 
written  1n  Latin.    151:10. 

Escobar  y  Mendo  za,  Antonio. 
A  Spanish  Jesuit  who  taught  that 
purity  of  intention  may  justify 
even  criminal  acts.    114:6. 

Etherege.    See  Congreve.    197:4. 

Eugene,  Prince.  The  Austrian  gen- 
eral in  the  War  of  the  Spanish 
Succession.    205 :22. 

Faithful  Shepherdess.  A  pastoral 
drama  by  John  Fletcher,  c.  1609. 
65:2. 

Fausti  na.  The  profligate  wife  of 
the  Roman  emperor,  Marcus 
Aurelius.    172:19. 

Fleetwood,  Charles.  An  English 
Parliamentary  general,  son-in- 
law  of  Cromwell.  He  died  in  ob- 
scurity long  after  the  Restoration. 
112:21. 

Fraeasto'rlus.  The  Latin  form  of 
Fracastorio.  An  Italian  physician 
of  the  16th  century,  who  wrote 
Latin  poems  on  pathological  sub- 
jects.   151:10. 

Frances  ca  da  Rim  ini.  Made  im- 
mortal in  the  most  famous  Canto 
(Inf.v.)  of  Dante's  Divine  Comedy. 
173:21. 

Freeholder.  A  political  paper  pub- 
lished by  Addison.  December,  1715 
to  June,  1716.     158:8. 

Galllo.  See  Acts  xviii.,  12-17.  114:18. 

Gazetteer.  The  editor  of  the  state 
newspaper,  the  Gazette,  estab- 
lished by  Charles  II.    189:15. 


Ger'ano-Pygmeeoma'chla,  or  Pyg- 

maeo-Geranomachia.  (BattU  of  the 
Pygmiexund  Orana.  i  A  Latin  poem 
by  Addison.     152:15. 

Godolphin,  Earl  of.  Lord  High 
Treasurer  during  the  early  part  of 
Anne's  reign.  As  a  financier, 
he  raised  the  funds  to  support 
Marlborough  in  his  prosecution 
of  the  war  on  the  continent. 
163:8. 

Grand  Alliance.  The  alliance 
formed  in  1701  between  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire.  England,  and  the 
Netherlands  against  France  and 
Spain.     160:5. 

Grecian,  The.  A  London  coffee- 
house of  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  Learned  Club  met  there. 
189:27. 

Guardian.  A  periodical  published 
by  Steele  and  Addison.  1713.  153 :3. 

Gwynn,  Nell.  An  English  actress, 
and  mistress  of  Charles  II. 
236:24. 

Halifax.    See  Montague.    160:20. 

Hampton  Court.  A  royal  palace 
on  the  Thames.    127:3 

Harley,  Edward.  An  English  Tory 
statesman  and  High  Churchman. 
Before  1690  he  had  been  a  Whig. 
175:16. 

Holland  House.  See  Note  on, 
236:22. 

Hough,  John.  Bishop  of  Worces- 
ter. Elected  president  of  Magda- 
len College,  1687.    132:6. 

Hume,  Joseph.   An  English  politi-   \ 
cian  and  Member  of  Parliament 
from  1812-55.    He  was  noted  for 
his  watchfulness  against   abuses 
in  public  expenditure.    85:11. 

Inns  of  Court.  The  name  of  four 
legal  societies  of  London,  and  of 
the  premises  which  they  occupy — 
the   Inner    Temple,    the    Middle 


270 


GLOSSARY 


Temple,  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  Gray's 
Inn.  211  ;8. 
Ireland,  William  Henry.  A  writer 
of  plays  which  he  pretended  to 
have  discovered,  and  attributed  to 
Shakspere.  Vortigern  and  Eow- 
ena  was  played  at  Drury  Lane, 
1796,  and  its  complete  failure  re- 
sulted in  exposure.    136:19. 

Jack  Pudding.  A  clown  in  English 
folk-lore.    194:13. 

Jonathan's  and  Garraway's.  Lon- 
don coffee-houses  frequented  by 
merchants  and  stock-jobbers. 
The  promoters  of  the  South  Sea 
Bubble  met  at  Garraway's.  21 1 :  12 

Kit-Cat  Club.  A  club  of  Whig 
politicians  and  wits.    147:5. 

Lapu'tan  flapper.  See  Gulliver's 
Travels,  iii.  2.    126:16. 

Machi'nae  Gesticulan'tes.  (Puppet 
Show.)  A  Latin  poem  by  Addison. 
152:14. 

Malebol  ge.  (Evil  Pits.)  Dante. 
Inferno,  cantos  18-30.    69 :23. 

Manchester,  Earl  of.  Ambassador 
to  France  just  before  the  War  of 
the  Spanish  Succession.    146:29. 

Marcet,Mrs.  Jane.  She  published  in 
1818  Conversations,  on  Political  Econ- 
omy, a  much-praised  book  in  its 
time.    51:11. 

Marlborough,  Duke  of  (John 
Churchill).  One  of  the  most  fa- 
mous of  England's  great  com- 
manders. He  was  the  leading 
spirit  of  the  Grand  Alliance. 
163:8. 

Marli.  Marly -le-Roy,  a  village  ten 
miles  from  Paris,  noted  for  a 
chateau  of  Louis  XIV.    199:20. 

Montague,  or  Montagu,  Charles, 
Earl  of  Halifax  (1661-1715).  See 
Essay  on  Addison,  pp.  139,  143. 
51:12. 


Montfort,  Simon  de.  Two  of  the 
name,  father  and  son,  were  com- 
manders in  tbe  13th  century.  The 
son,  in  a  struggle  with  Henry  III., 
defeated  and  captured  him,  and 
virtually  originated  the  House  of 
Commons.    114:5. 

Mourad  Bey.  Commander  of  the 
Mamelukes  at  their  defeat  by  Na- 
poleon in  the  Battle  of  the  Pyra- 
mids.   169:7. 

New'dlgate  prize.  An  annual  prize 
for  English  verse,  founded  at  Ox- 
ford by  Sir  Roger  Newdigate. 
139  V4 

Newmarket  Heath,  in  Cambridge- 
shire. Annual  horse-races  have 
been  held  there  since  the  time  of 
James  I.    165:14. 

October  Club.  A  club  of  extreme 
Tories,  named  for  its  celebrated 
October  ale.    211:27. 

Oromas'des  (or  Ormuzd,  Ormazd, 
Ahura  Mazda).  The  Wise  or 
Good  Spirit  in  the  Zoroastrian 
mythology,  who  will  ultimately 
triumph  over  Ahriman.  the  Evil 
One.     83:30. 

Pastor  Fido.  An  Italian  pastoral 
drama  by  Guarini.c.  1583.    65:4. 

peripetia.  A  Greek  technical 
term,  signifying  a  sudden  change 
or  reverse  of  fortune,  on  which  the 
plot  of  a  tragedy  turns;  the  de 
nouement.    216:20. 

Prior,  Matthew.  An  English  poet. 
After  the  death  of  Anne  and  the 
rise  of  the  Whig  ministry,  he  wa^ 
imprisoned  under  suspicion  of 
high  treason  (1715-17).     126:30. 

Ravenna,  Wood  of.    The  Pineta  or 

pine  forest  on  the  shore  near  Ra- 
venna. See  Dante,  Purg.  xxvili, 
20.     173:18. 


GLOSSARY 


271 


Rich,  Heniy.  Earl  of  Holland. 
from  whom  Holland  House  took 
its  name.    240:18. 

Sachev  ere'.l,  Henry.  An  English 
High  Church  clergyman  and  vio- 
lent Tory.  lie  was  impeached  for 
preaching  against  the  Whig  min- 
istry. The  trial  grew  into  a  party 
struggle,  which  resulted  in  the 
overthrow  of  the  Whigs  in  1710. 
17 5:87. 

St.  James's  Coffee-House.  The 
resort  of  politicians.    204:18. 

Salmastus. Claudius.  The  Latinized 
name  of  n  French  scholar  whose 
book  in  defense  of  the  policy  of 
Charles  I.  called  forth  Milton's 
Pro  Papula  Defensio.    102 :24. 

Santa  Cro'ce,  Church  of .  In  Flor- 
ence. Michelangelo,  Galileo,  and 
others  are  buried  there.    173:18. 

Satirist  .  .  Age.  Sensational  jour- 
nals of  Macaulay's  time.    232:8. 

Saul.  A  tragedy  by  the  Italian  poet 
Alfieri.    214:1. 

Savoy,  Duke  of.  See  Victor  Ama- 
DKUa     160:1. 

Seatonian  prize.  An  annual  prize 
for  sacred  poetry, founded  at  Cam- 
bridge by  the  will  (1741)  of  Thos. 
Seaton,  hymn  writer.    139:24. 

Shrewsbury,  Duke  of  (Charles  Tal- 
bot'. One  of  the  noblemen  who 
invited  the  Prince  of  Orange  to 
England  in  1688.  On  the  death  of 
Anne  in  1714  he  became  Lord  High 
Treasurer.    88:11. 

Silius  Ital'lcus.  A  Roman  writer 
Of  a  dull  heroic  poem  in  seventeen 
books.    135:12. 

Sinai  ridge,  George.  Bishop  of 
Bristol  in  the  time  of  Queen  Anne. 
Dr.  Johnson  praised  his  sermons 
for  their  "style."  198:9. 

Somen,  John.  A  leading  Whig 
statesman  in  the  time  of  William 
III.  and  Anne.  He  helped  to  draw 


up  the  Declaration  of  Bights 
which  was  presented  to  William 
and  Mary.  He  secured  for  Addi- 
son a  pension.    88:10. 

Somerset.  Charles  Seymour,  si  xtb 
Duke  of  Somerset.  Called  "  the 
Proud  "  — ■  hardly  distinguished 
otherwise.  He  refused  to  employ 
Addison  as  tutor  to  his  son.  possi- 
bly because  future  patronage 
would  be  expected  of  him.  145:11. 

Spectator.  A  paper  published  daily 
by  Steele,  Addison  and  others, 
Mar.,  1711.  to  Dec.  1712;  continued 
by  Addison  in  1714.    153:3. 

Spence,  Joseph  (1699-1768>.  An 
English  critic  who  left  a  volume 
of  criticism  and  anecdotes.   148 :2. 

Squire  Western.  A  character  in 
Fielding's  Tom  Jones.    225:4. 

Sumner,  Rev.  Charles  R.  Libra- 
rian to  George  IV.,  and  after- 
wards Bishop  of  Winchester.  45 : 
Title. 

Surface,  Joseph.  A  hypocrite  in 
Sheridan's  School  for  Scandal. 
235:15. 

Talus.    An  attendant  on  Sir  Arte- 

gal.    See  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen .  v 

1,12.    113:  19. 
Tangier',  or  Tangiers.    A  seaport 

of  Morocco.     129 :22. 
Tatler.    A  periodical  published  by 

Steele,  and  Addison,  1709-11.    181: 

12. 
Teazle,  Sir  Peter.    A  character  in 

Sheridan's  School  for  Scandal.  235 : 

15. 
Temple,  Sir  William.    An  English 

statesman  and  author.    Macaulay 

has  an  essay  upon  him.    191 :27. 
Theobald's.      A     country-seat    in 

Hertfordshire.    The  residence  of 

Lord  Burleigh.    Used  as  a  palace 

by  James  I.     127:1. 
Thundering  Legion.    A  legion  of 

Christian    soldiers    under    M 


272 


GLOSSARY 


Aurelius,  whose  prayers  for  rain, 
according  to  legend,  were  answered 
by  a  thunderstorm  which  de- 
stroyed their  enemies.  Addison 
sneaks  of  the  event  in  his  essay 
"Of  the  Christian  Religion,"  -Vii. 
3.    136:20. 

Toland,  John.  An  English  deist 
who  published  a  life  of  Milton  in 
1698.    45:13 

i'own  Talk.  A  paper  established 
by  Steele,  Dec.  17,  1715.  But  nine 
numbers  were  issued.    226:3. 

Vanbrugh',  See  Cosgreve.  197: 
15. 

Vane,  Sir  Henry.  An  English  Re- 
publican statesman,  with  a  "  dash 
of  the  fanatic."  One  of  the  Fifth 
Monarchy  men.  Beheaded  1662. 
Milton's  17th  sonnet  is  addressed 
to  him.    112:19. 

Victor  Amade'us  II.,  Duke  of  Sa- 
voy. He  abandoned  Louis  and 
joined  the  Alliance  in  1703.    172 :11. 

Walpole,  Horace  (1717-97).  The  au- 
thor of  The  Castle  of  Otranto  and 
many  memoirs  and  letters.  192 :1. 

Walpole,  Sir  Robert  (1676-1743). 
Not  to  be  confounded  with  his 
son  Horace,    For  an  account  of 


him.  see  Macaulay's  first  essay  en 
the  Earl  of  Chatham  and  his  essay 
on  Horace  Walpole.    5a:  12. 

Wild  of  Sussex.  Commonly  called 
"  Weald.'"  The  Weald  is  a  name 
given  to  a  district  comprising 
portions  of  the  counties  of  Kent 
and  Sussex  in  southeastern  Eng- 
land. It  is  not  certain  whether 
the  word  is  to  be  traced  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  iceahl,  •'  forest," 
modern  "  wold,"  or  whether  it  is 
an  irregular  form  of  wild.    129:18. 

Will's.  A  well-known  London  cof- 
fee-house in  the  time  of  Drydeu 
and  Addison,  known  also  as  "  The 
Wits'  CofTee-House."  The  resort 
of  poets  and  wits.     189:27. 

Wood,  Anthony  a.  An  industrious 
antiquary  whose  books  on  the 
antiquities  and  the  great  men  of 
the  University  of  Oxford  have  for 
more  than  two  centuries  been  a 
mine  of  information.    45:13. 

Wych  erley.  See  Congreve.  197  : 
5. 

Xeres'  (whence  our  word  sherry). 
A  town  in  southwestern  Spain. 
famous  for  its  exportation  of 
wines.  Macaulay  seems  10  think 
it  is  a  river.    97  :i4. 


14  DAY  USE 

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